Just One Yesterday
by Amidephrine
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is an English Prince, but he can't do much with his title in 14th century Scotland, caught in the midst of a brutal war, disguised as a servant and under the unofficial "ownership" of an ambitious Scottish Lord. Going from the life of pampered noble to a lowly pauper is no easy feat, nevermind that his lord is angry, irritable and about the craziest man on earth.
1. Chapter 1

_If Heaven's grief brings Hell's rain, then I'd trade all my tomorrows for Just One Yesterday._

* * *

The carriage lurched violently and Arthur clung desperately to the bench, a strangled cry of fear escaping him despite his attempts to be brave.

His steward looked to him and smiled, green eyes sparkling. It helped to calm the young blonde, but not by much.

"Don't worry m'lord, we'll be fine."

Arthur paled as the carriage lurched again, but managed a rapid nod.

There were shouts from behind them, accompanied by the thunderous gallop of horses. Their own horses would never outrun them all. They may have been the finest the Kingdom of England could supply for the voyage, but they carried a heavy load and three passengers. It was a miracle they were still going at all.

Then something snapped, and both of the passengers inside the carriage jumped at the sound. The steward did a quick investigation of the inner cabin, then stuck his head out the back. He grimaced at the sight of their pursuers, who were steadily gaining on them. He retreated into the cabin once more.

"How are you holding up, my prince?"

Despite the situation, the Welshman managed to keep his expression calm. His smile was gentle and the light in his eyes was reassuring. Even so, Arthur could only stare in shock, wondering what witchcraft the man preformed to keep so composed in such a dire situation.

"Ho-how?! I'm bloody fucking terrified!" The youth could feel his face heating up, his arms shaking wildly.

"Mind your tongue, young lord. Your mother would pale to hear such language."

The English boy made no effort to hide his fear, nor his disbelief.

"Y-you're scolding me _now_ for poor language? _Now?!"_

Something whizzed by the side of the carriage and the noble jumped. For the first time since the chase started, the brunet allowed a look of disdain to take over his features. He cast a nervous look to the blonde, who shivered madly where he sat.

"Forgive me, my lord, and pray we survive."

"What?"

Arthur's question went ignored. His steward stuck his head out the carriage and yelled something to the driver. There was a moment of silence, where Arthur could hear little over the roar of blood in his ears, then something was shouted back and his attendant ducked back into the cabin.

"Hold on, sire!"

Arthur thought he couldn't possibly hold on any tighter. Perhaps he should have tried, because he went flying forward when the carriage bucked violently. He collapsed on the bench across from him, having barely any time to react before his steward descended upon him. One firm arm hooked around the boy's waist, while the hand of the other had a death grip on the bench.

The blonde then made the mistake of looking outside and noting how the edge of the dirt road was getting closer and closer to the carriage, while the sounds of the horses drawing their carriage were steadily fading.

"Al-"

"Shh, Sire, don't look."

Arthur hadn't the mind to listen, it was instinct that drove him to bury his face into the chest of his friend and servant as their carriage lurched off the side of the road and tumbled into the ravine.

* * *

"-ire..."

Arthur could hear a buzzing in his ears.

His head felt heavy.

"-ord..."

There was a voice calling to him somewhere nearby, sounding distressed. The blonde let his eyes flutter open, though his sight was blurry.

"-ur...Ar...ur...thur...Arth...Arthur!"

His world came into focus and he bolted upright, almost knocking heads with his steward who leaned over him, both hands gripping his shoulders.

"Thank goodness you're alright, Arthur!"

"Alright...?" echoed the boy, dazed. His steward fell back on his hands with a relieved sigh and Arthur took a moment to study their surroundings. They were in the forest, soft earth below them and trees framing the clearing. Their carriage lay in ruin nearby, split clean in half, one of the wheels still spinning loosely in the air. There was a path of destruction that trailed up the hill – broken trees and flattened bushes the evidence of their stunt. The youth suddenly felt nauseous. "Did we...?"

"Go over the ravine? Yes."

Arthur began shaking again.

"Alan, we could have died!"

"But we did not! Optimism, sire!" The brunet gave the boy a soft smile, then rose to his feet. "Now come, we're not safe yet."

As if on cue, the hush between the two was broken by voices from above – harsh, angry voices and the thunder of hooves.

"Come quick, and be quiet," hissed Alan, putting a finger to his lips for emphasis. He grabbed his lord's hand and together the pair took off into the woods, away from the carriage and away from the horses above. Arthur let hope flutter in his chest until one voice boomed over the ravine and shot that hope down before it had truly begun to fly.

"Bide, ye fools!"

"Don't stop!" urged his steward, pulling along the youth who'd hesitated at the sound.

"Th' cab is doon thaur!" Arthur looked back, seeing the man perched atop his white stallion at the top of the ravine, waving to those still behind him. "Uch, dunderheids, th' lot o' 'em! Th' rest o' ye, wi' me!"

Arthur's heart kicked up into a panic again as he heard the horses begin to descend the slope.

"Alan!" the youth whispered, turning desperate eyes on his only caretaker.

Alan turned and green met green. The young man felt his heart twist with sympathy and he pulled his friend and master aside, diving into a thicket and ignoring the youth's cries of protest, all while shushing him adamantly.

They crawled together while the men on horses beat the bushes with swords, trying to scare their targets out of hiding. Alan peeked through the leaves to watch them approach, a feeling of dread creeping over him as he watched those swords slice their way through the thicket.

But then he took a look back to the young noble, who sat shivering on the forest floor, green eyes wide and unabashedly afraid. Something in Alan broke, staring into the frightened face of a boy he practically grew up next to, and he made his decision.

"Your clothes, sire, take them off!"

Without fully explaining, the steward began to pull at the boy's ornate coat.

"W-what? Unhand me! What do you think this will accomplish?!"

Arthur tried to swat the other boy away, but Alan held firm. He looked his master straight in the eye and spoke in a limpid tone.

"Arthur. Please. Take them off."

Caught off guard by his normally soft-spoken steward's bold demand, Arthur's stubborn attitude faltered. The look in those green eyes were pleading, and the youth couldn't bring himself to ignore them – propriety be damned.

He sighed quietly, shrugging off his heavy coat and his ornate vest, toeing off his polished black shoes and shimmying out of his velvet trousers. To his surprise, his steward did the same. His worn brown loafers were kicked off. His brown vest and patchy trousers removed in quick succession, all shoved towards the young lord in a pile with the ragged brown cloak Alan typically wore over his shoulders.

"Put these on, quick."

Arthur was stunned into silence for a moment, watching as his servant began to dress himself in the ornate clothing the blonde had just shed. When he realized he was being stared at, Alan turned that pleading look to him again.

"_Please,_ m'lord."

Without answering, Arthur slowly began to pull on the trousers, lifting his hips to wiggle them into place, then pulling the dusty vest over his blouse. While he struggled with the vest, Alan had finished dressing himself and now helped slip his old shoes onto the blonde.

The exchange was miraculously quick, and even when completed Arthur did not quite look right. Alan licked his hands and rubbed them in the dirt, before dragging them across his master's face.

"Hey!"

"Shush, sire, forgive me!"

He ruffled the boy's hair, despite mumbled protests and demands for an explanation. He cleaned his dirty hands off on Arthur's shirt, then did the best to wipe the dust from his own face with the back of his wrists.

It was then, with the men almost upon them, that Arthur understood what his steward was planning. He would later blame his mental lethargy on shock.

"Alan-" he was beginning to form a protest, but his tongue seemed to swell in his mouth and his throat closed up. His eyes stung.

"Hush, m'lord, Arthur." The steward turned his kind eyes to the boy, patting his cheek with his knuckles. "This is my duty."

"But-!"

"Shh. You'll get the chance to grow up a bit, yeah? England won't miss me."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest again, but Alan turned away and in one fluid motion, rose to his feet and stepped out into the clearing – right in front of a warrior on horseback.

The blonde scrambled forward on all fours, fully intent on following his steward out into the open, but his limbs became heavy with fear before he got very far. He could only stare apprehensively into the clearing, watching as the warrior stopped his horse, his men rallying behind him.

The one in front – the leader, Arthur was guessing – dismounted his horse and approached the noble-looking boy, who stood perfectly attentive, his back rigid and his expression fearless.

"Ach, sae thes is th' brat," the leader mused. He was tall, but his face was young. His fiery red hair was capped by a blue beret, but it did nothing to tame the mess. He, like the soldiers behind him, wore a uniform garment of blue-and-green plaid, and something that looked like a skirt.

_Arthur, love, never call a Scotsman's kilt a skirt._

The memory brought tears to the blonde's eyes. He wondered if he'd see his mother again, and covered his mouth to silence any potential sobs.

"Ye got a tongue, bairn?" the man withdrew his sword and pointed it at Alan. His accent had gotten softer, probably to make sure the English snob would understand him. He brought the steel edge of his blade to the boy's jaw, who maintained the courage to nod. "Use it, then."

"And what would you have me say, Scot?"

Even Arthur was surprised by the bold challenge in Alan's voice. He did not shake nor stutter, but glared right at the fire-haired general without fear.

"Yer name, loun."

Alan answered without missing a beat.

"Alan Kirkland."

There was a chorus of whispers that arose from the gathered soldiers. They fanned out in a messy semi-circle around their leader, their horses restless as their riders exchanged rumours.

"Hush, ye fools," hissed the leader, barking over his shoulder to his fellows. They fell silent almost instantly. When they were still, he turned his attention back to the boy and rolled his blade so he could pat the boy's cheek with the flat of the metal.

"Kirkland, ye be?" echoed the Scot, something sinister glittering in his eyes. "Any relation to guid ol' Eddy three?"

"Edward the third?" the boy repeated, fixing the slander of the great king's name. "I am his son."

The whispers started again, silenced by the bark of a word Arthur wasn't even going to pretend to understand.

"Ye ken what 'at means, do ye, bairn?"

"I do," Alan said, his tone suddenly somber.

Arthur, however, did not. He crouched anxiously in his hiding place, fearing the moment when the men would drag his friend away.

The man's expression suddenly became much softer, the hard light in his eyes fading to something that could be called kindly. He stepped closer and clapped the boy on the shoulder. He abolished his Scottish drawl almost entirely when he spoke again.

"You got a set o' balls on you, boy," he said quietly. "I'll make sure they know you went with honour."

_Went with hon-_

Arthur didn't get the chance to finish his thought. All at once, the man pulled his blade back only to thrust it through the child's stomach. Alan sputtered and paled, blood dribbling from his lips as the man lifted him up, pressing the guard of his sword into the soft flesh of the seemingly royal child.

No man cheered at the sight of the child murdered, and the leading Scot withdrew and let the boy clatter to the floor in a dismal silence. He cleaned the blood from his blade with the plaid cloak adorning his shoulder, then sheathed the weapon and turned.

"Such is the rules of war," he said simply.

Arthur couldn't help it. A cry escaped his lips and through the protective cover of his hands. Alan's face had fallen towards him, and the blonde was left looking into the lifeless eyes of a longtime friend and ally. He couldn't still his tongue, nor could he stop the tears that began to spill over grubby fingers.

"Hauld a moment," said the leader, pivoting in the dirt and marching to where the sound had escaped from. "Whit hae we haur?" Arthur couldn't tear his eyes away from Alan's body, and couldn't muster the will to do more than cry out when a large hand came down on his head and gripped a fistful of blonde. He was yanked to his feet and out of his hiding place and he was sure he looked a mess with tears streaming down his face and slathered with dirt.

"Another wee one!" laughed the Scot, giving Arthur a good shake. The boy tried to pull the offending hand out of his hair, but the grip was far too strong. "A slae-bairn? Did the guid prince hide ye away to protect ye?"

Arthur didn't answer, his eyes having found the bloody body of his steward once more. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"Well, bairn? Gon' let yer master's sacrilege go t' waste, are ye?"

Arthur was shook again, and something in the Scot's words resonated in the youth. He wound his slack jaw shut and convinced his body to stop producing the tears that cascaded over his cheeks. He was _royalty_. Alan had given his life to protect him, and he would not allow that death to be in vain. He would carry himself like a noble – like he should have been doing from the very beginning.

"Kill me, if you must," the blonde could not believe the words as they tumbled from his lips. They were not as strong as he would've liked them to sound, but at least he'd the courage to utter them at all. He drew strength from his friend and servant's final display, no matter how much it hurt to do so.

"Kill ye, loun?" echoed the Scot, who chuckled dryly. "A slae bairn in the woods, aft' endin' his master?"

Arthur rallied the necessary composure to glare up at the man, who leaned in close to study his face. The man tightened his grip on Arthur's hair, using the hold to turn him this way and that as he studied the youth.

"Yer name, lad," demanded the Scot, and Arthur was almost hesitant to answer.

But he wanted to be brave. He wanted to have spine and courage and show his friend he too could be a hero – even if the opportune moment had passed. He was a pampered noble and had been teased for it by his steward since childhood, so these sort of violent situations were alien to him.

How would his parents feel, seeing a snivelling mess in place of their son? How would Alan feel, to know he'd given his life to a coward too scared to stand up for himself?

It would kill them. It killed Alan.

No more.

"Arthur," he said, willing his voice to be strong and his stare to be fearless.

"Arthur?"

Ah, what was Alan's name?

"Arthur Kendricks."

The man narrowed his eyes, studying the youth in a heavy silence that made Arthur worry maybe his pride had shown a little too well – maybe he'd somehow given himself away.

But the man only grunted, nodding to a soldier who got off his horse. He turned and shoved the boy towards him.

"Well then, Kendricks, ye hae a new master now."

Dread lanced through the blonde's gut as the soldier lifted the boy and tossed him over his shoulder like a lowly sack of potatoes. He felt himself flush at the indignation.

"Ye answer tae Laird Alistair Graham, and it be best ye brace fer a proper life in bonnie Alba."

Arthur paled as his hands and feet were bound by a leather cord and he was thrown unceremoniously over the back of a painted horse. The soldier charged with his transport climbed on with a grunt, pausing as his leader passed. The Scot regarded Arthur carefully again, lifting the youth's chin to study the jade eyes that glared daggers at the general.

"Aye," Lord Alistair muttered, "bonnie Scotland."

He trotted off to head the small squad of mounted warriors, and as Arthur turned involuntarily with the horse, he was given another glance at his former steward who still lay in the dirt.

The boy's blood ran cold to see that Alan's head had shifted, his dull eyes following the horse that held the young prince, one hand outstretched as if reaching to him, blood still spilling from his mouth.

Arthur screwed his eyes shut at the horrid illusion and could do nothing to stop the fresh torrent of tears that went ignored by everyone but the hallucination he shunned.

* * *

**Ohohohoho. What have you done now, brain? What is this nonsense you're conjuring?  
(also I haven't edited this yet so it's probably littered with errors, I'll fix it when it's not 1:00 in the morning)**

**So, first attempt at a multi-chapter, this should be uhm...interesting. I'd say it'll be short, but let's be honest, I tend to lie when I say things will be short. Jyes, it's England/Scotland. Yes I butchered history to do it. Why England/Scotland, you say? Why not swap some characters and locations and time periods and make it a more popular coupling? Saaaaay UsUK? BECAUSE I LIKE SCOTLAND, OKAY?**

**Don't judge.**

**So here's the medieval beast. Arthur is probs 15/16ish here, acting like a child 'cause let's face it he's lived a sheltered life. For those of you who hadn't guessed, Alan Kendricks is the totes random personification of Wales I threw in there. I allllmost made it Alfred but naw, naw, I got other plans for that gangsta.**

**I'll still do little oneshots on the side, but I'm excited to see how far I can get into this. I have ideas! Also PS this is rated T. There will be some dark scenes and probs some steamy sections, but nothing so heavy or explicit enough to call for the M rating. But this is your advance warning.**

**Anyways, thanks for giving this fic a shot! I really appreciate your time, and would love if you just sent me a review to let me know what you think. I don't bite, and do try to answer them all.**

**Until next time, lovies, stay beautiful!**

**Ta~**

**Ami**

**P.S.  
I FIXED IT.**


	2. Chapter 2

_I don't have the right name or the right looks, but I have twice the heart._

* * *

The ride that took him further and further away from home was undoubtedly one of the most uncomfortable Arthur had ever endured. He bounced around wildly on the back of the horse, his ribs stinging something fierce only a few minutes into the journey. What was worse, is he perpetually felt as if he were going to tumble off the back of the bloody beast, steadied only now and again by the rough hand of his Scottish keeper.

He spent the entire afternoon bouncing around on the back of the accursed creature, his only relief coming in the form of the short break they took in which Lord Alistair stopped to speak with another group of soldiers. He was able to twist onto his side to give his stomach some relief from the pressure, watching as the fire-haired Scot yelled things in an incomprehensible language to the passing general, who yelled right back.

Arthur would've believed they were fighting by the tone and the volume of their voices, but they broke apart laughing, clapping each other on the shoulders with matching smiles.

Which is why Arthur was unprepared for Alistair to suddenly pull back a fist a deck the bearded other across the face, sending him tumbling into the dirt. But he was the only one alarmed but such an act. Both parties kicked up into a howl of laughter, exchanging garbled words of congratulations. Arthur felt dismayed. He'd never understand these barbarians.

They went on their way after the minor break and once again Arthur was left to shift uncomfortably on the back of the horse. He was back to the stabs of pain over his stomach and chest, the irritated swears from his rider whenever the boy cried out too loud and to the mocking chuckle of a passing Scot. It made his face burn, he felt sick and wished he was back home where he was safe and warm and comfortable, waiting contently for Alan to bring him afternoon tea.

Then Arthur remembered that – regardless he ever make it home again – afternoon tea with Alan was a wish that would never be granted. Poor Alan was left behind to rot in the dust, a nameless corpse in an insignificant ravine. Would anyone ever find his body? Would he ever be given a proper burial?

Arthur paled when he thought of the answers to his questions, and a terrible guilt clawed at his heart. Alan was dead because he'd been too spineless to act. Alan was dead and no one would find him and as far as anyone concerned, Arthur may as well be dead too. Who knows how long he would last under the rule of the 'Laird Graham?' What would he even be expected to do? How did the Scotsmen treat their servants? How would Alistair?

Arthur didn't know. He didn't know and he was scared and humiliated and it hurt to breathe.

And then something snapped within the youth, he felt his humiliation and fear boil over into rage, and he remembered at last how to use his voice.

"A bloody plague on you all!"

His rider turned back and whacked him over the head, and while the blow dazed him, it did nothing to still his tongue or his fraying state of mind. He was alone in a kingdom full of cutthroats that hated the English, he'd just watched the closest thing he had to a friend get run through protecting him, and now he was being whisked away to serve under a terrifying loon claiming to be a Scottish lord. No backhand was going to silence him now.

"You're bloody barbarians, the lot of you! You'll all burn in hell like you deserve, you and this accursed kingdom!"

His rider smacked him again, harder, and this only fuelled his rebellious display. Alistair, who was near the front of the party, reared his horse and trotted back to where Arthur ran his mouth fearlessly.

"Go on and smack me, you twit!" he cursed his rider, "I don't give a flying fuck! The English will come and raze these lands all you'll all be screaming god save the king lest they burn you along with it! Just wait, you-"

He was stopped when Alistair's hand came down on his skull and remained there, blunt fingers digging into his scalp.

"Ach, there's yer voice a' last," he said, sounding strangely subdued. "Ah thought ye hud lost it."

Arthur scrambled to relight his rage, but found it quite wholly smothered by the deceptive calm in that voice and the death grip on his skull. Alistair pulled and the boy cried out in pain, dragged as he was up closer to the Scot. He felt the beginnings of a splitting headache forming under the man's fingertips.

"Ye have quite the mouth on ye fer a serving boy, whelp." Arthur squeezed his eyes shut against the ache. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he noted that Alistair changed how strong his accent was whenever he wanted the boy to understand him. He'd always thought the Scots were too proud for that.

"Where did ye pick up such lip?" Alistair mused, giving the boy a light shake, prompting him to open his eyes and glare once more to his 'new lord'. In a strangely sober moment, Arthur found himself taken back by the man's expression. He did not look angry, but contemplative. Something glittered in his eyes, something he could not explain but made the English noble wish for anger instead. "Ye treat yer old masters this way?"

"My old masters were _English_," Arthur spat, quite literally, up at the man's face. As Alistair pulled away to wipe the spittle off his cheek with his free hand, the boy continued. "And not such uncultured barbarians as you lot."

"Ye tryin' t'say they didn't _deserve_ yer wit, boy?"

Arthur knew he shouldn't feel empowered by the soft tone or the lack of anger, but he did. He was too proud not to.

"I am."

Alistair stared thoughtfully for a few more moments, during which Arthur tried in vain to drum up another insult. Before he could, the Scot threw back his head and laughed.

"I like yer fire, boy," he said, grinning wildly – but there was anger in his eyes now. "But mind it dosnae brin' ye more trouble than ye can handle."

He shoved the boy back down, and severely imbalanced the youth almost slid head first into the dirt below. His rider pulled him back by the cording binding his hands, and made sure he was balanced before releasing him. Alistair reached under his cloak and pulled out a handkerchief. With a smug grin, the man wiped the sweat, dirt and spittle from his face.

_Surprised the bloody Scot has even that small semblance of hygiene, _Arthur thought bitterly, only to feel something cold lance through his chest when he watched the lord toss the rag at his rider and order:

"Gag him."

* * *

Arthur refused to regret his outburst, no matter how much he wanted to. He spent the rest of the ride with that disgusting, filthy rag practically jammed down his throat and tied in place by a flat strip of leather. The entire time his eyes watered from the effort of holding back the urge to gag and he did his very best to ignore the taste of sweat and dirt and blood, instead focusing all his attention on the futile act of gnawing through the leather that helped to silence him.

At least it gave him something to do.

_Optimism, sire! _He heard Alan chirp happily in the back of his mind.

It still took all too long for the little troupe to finally approach their destination. Arthur had noticed soldiers splitting off at certain forks in the road, no doubt returning to their own homes or camps, while Alistair and a select few others continued along the main road. By the time the boy could see a looming castle in the distance, their party of Scots had quartered. There were three other riders left, aside from the one carrying Arthur and the Lord himself.

They approached the main gate and someone shouted something over the wall. The lord called back, and then there was a series of clicking noises before the heavy door barring their way was opened slowly. Alistair lead the way inside, and Arthur lifted his head to study his surroundings.

He couldn't explain why, but the blonde had been expecting something a lot more sinister than what he saw.

The walls sheltered a small settlement built around a short, winding road that climbed the hill to where a modest castle sat at the highest elevation. As they proceeded up the hill, Arthur watched as they passed quaint little houses, a small pub, a smith's and a few small, two-story shops. Women shook rugs out of upper windows and children ran gleefully through the streets, some even going barefoot.

Arthur twisted to watch as one small girl waved wildly to the man at the head of their troupe, and he was caught off guard by the friendly laugh the man let loose and the kiss he blew in her direction. With a grimace, the Brit turned away from the scene, studying instead the little shops and various buildings of the small, secluded settlement. The three soldiers following them broke off from the group, and the English youth watched one dismount his horse in time to sweep up a young woman in his arms and spin her around.

He watched the couple embrace before he was yanked harshly by the cord binding his hands and transferred ungracefully to Alistair's white stallion – still thrown like cheap merchandise over the beast's rear, however.

The Lord and Arthur's former carrier exchanged a few words. The nameless rider slapped his lord fondly on the back, then rode back down the hill and into the settlement. Alistair carried on alone up to the second set of gates – the ones that stood as the entrance way to the castle.

It wasn't a small building by any stretch, but Arthur's home was much, much larger. He couldn't help the smug grin that accompanied this thought, though it was chased away when the horse trotted quickly into the courtyard and bounced Arthur around a little more – he hadn't even realized the gates had opened.

Finally, they came to a complete stop. Alistair dismounted first, patted his horse on the neck and whispered soothing words to the creature in a language Arthur couldn't understand. He then turned to the boy, and with far less care, dragged his captive off of the beast.

The blonde managed to get his feet underneath him, but as they were still bound he had no way to walk and Alistair didn't plan on giving him one. The Scot grabbed the boy by his ragged cloak and dragged him through the dirt towards the door. He twisted in time to see the doors open, trying to get a better look at the woman who stepped out into the light.

But the Scot denied him even that luxury and threw him forwards. The youth landed on his side in the dirt, his indignant cries still muffled by the foul-tasting rag. Alistair stepped forwards and without missing a beat, pressed his boot into the side of the Brit's face. Arthur swore, but the words didn't make it past his gag.

"Alistair, what is the meaning o' this?"

The girl's voice was kind and decidedly not Scottish.

"A souvenir, lass, taken from Prince Kirkland."

Arthur stiffened, only to wish he'd remained still when Alistair put a little more weight in his right leg.

"Kirkland?" echoed the woman.

"Aye."

The woman made a sound that resembled a quiet "oh," then approached the lord and his prisoner. Arthur couldn't see the details, but the woman was passing something to the Scot. Arthur used the distraction to try and worm his way out, only to be pressed even harder into the dirt.

"Be still, brat," the Scot barked, and Arthur smelled smoke.

_That_ was it? He was being used as a step while the man _lit_ his bloody _pipe?!_

Arthur was humiliated for the umpteenth time that day, his face heating up in shame. Oh, if the king could see him now, under the boot of a lowly Scottish lord while he smoked; it would kill him. Perhaps pretending to be a servant boy wouldn't be so hard after all – he didn't necessarily feel much like a prince any more.

His eyes stung, he was hungry and tired and had been shamed too many times to count. He hated the taste in his mouth, he hated the pain in his chest and in his stomach, and he hated the man who pressed his face into the dirt. The youth couldn't help it; he began to cry.

The tears were hot and angry and hurt all the same.

"M'lord, let the poor lad up, he's had a right tryin' time."

The Scot did not respond, and he didn't bother to move for quite some time. Arthur knew he was being watched, but he no longer cared. He cried quietly, aware of how the man slowly ground his boot against his cheek.

"Get th' brat cleaned up, Cait, 'n have 'im ready fer work first thing in th' morn."

"O'course, m'lord."

Alistair removed his boot at last and gave the youth no more of his attention as he passed. Arthur lifted his head and glared through narrowed eyes at the man's back, trying to somehow strike him dead through the sheer force of his loathing. But the man did not notice nor did he care, disappearing through the doors without another word and leaving nothing behind but a trail of acrid smoke.

The young woman stepped into his line of sight, grabbing him by the shoulders to help keep him steady as he pushed himself up.

"Don't mind him, lad, he's not truly so bad once you get to know 'im."

The boy swore through the gag again, and the woman smiled at him with too much kindness. She had bright orange hair, thrown up in a lazy bun atop her head, while her eyes – caught somewhere between blue and green – gave him an unbridled look of sympathy.

The woman – Cait, Alistair had called her – reached around the boy's head to the knot of leather behind him. He felt her fingers struggling with the ties for a few agonizing minutes, but finally the knot came loose and she pulled the strip away. Arthur pushed the rag, moist with saliva, out of his mouth with his tongue. He spat over and over again into the dirt, realizing with dread that the flavour had soaked into his tongue.

"There, there," Cait soothed, patting him on the head as he retched and spat. She shuffled around to where his wrists were bound behind him and began to work at the knot there.

"I hate him!" The young man pulled desperately at his wrists, trying to free them faster but only hindering the woman's efforts to help him. "I _loathe_ the Scottish _bastard!_" His wrists were suddenly free and he swung his legs around in front of him to undo the last knot himself. He ignored the girl's desperate attempts to shush him. "I swear, I'll slit his bloody throat in his sleep! What a bloody foolish thing to do, bring me here! I'll see him hanged – no, quartered!"

"Please, dear, if he hears you he'll be cross. I'm sure you've had a rough time, but-"

"Rough? _Rough?!"_ Arthur freed his ankles and pushed himself to his feet all too quickly, stumbling in his haste. "_Rough_ doesn't even begin to bloody _describe_ it!" He whirled on the woman who sat in the dirt and stared up at him with wide eyes. "He _murdered_ my friend, tossed me about like a sack of cheap _manure, silenced_ me with tha- that _filthy_ rag and then had the nerve to fucking _stand on me_!" Arthur gestured wildly with his arms, unable to reign in his aggression and not really seeing the fear on the woman's face.

"And what's worse – _what takes the god damn cake_ – is he expects me to _serve_ him and be _damn grateful?!"_

"He spared you, did he not?" the woman supplied tentatively.

"I would've preferred the sword," snarled the youth, "it would've been _quicker_."

The woman watched as Arthur stormed past her – back to where the gates had shut. He shook the bars desperately, screaming at them to open until his throat was raw. Finally, with his temper flickering out, he collapsed against the bars, sliding to his knees. He bit his lip to keep himself from sobbing.

"I don't want this," he hissed to no one, though the girl who stood behind him listened, never without that sympathetic light in her stare.

"The good lord deals us our hand, lad, we else can we do but play it?"

Arthur gripped the bars tightly and banged his forehead against the metal again and again, the dull thud echoing through the otherwise silent courtyard.

After a long minute of that somber beat, the woman approached the boy again, settling her hands on his shoulders.

"Come now, lad, it's not all bad. You still live, aye? Take that as a good sign. You have a second chance – who knows what will come of it?"

Arthur nodded numbly, though he would be quick to admit her words really weren't doing much to comfort him then and there. He allowed the girl to pull him away from the bars and to his feet, and clung to her arm as she guided him through the courtyard – a frazzled, dirty, emotional mess.

He didn't see Alistair watching from the shadow of the doorway, puffing on his pipe with a curious smirk on his lips.

* * *

Cait led the young man around the castle to a humble side entrance. She opened the door for him and ushered him inside. The room was dimly lit by a torch chandelier hanging from the ceiling, suspended over a long wooden table.

"Grab a seat, yeah? I'll fetch you something to eat."

Arthur felt hollow as he drifted over to the table, collapsing onto the bench and burying his head in his hands. He heard Caitlin shuffling around in the cupboards, trying to throw together a decent meal for the wary boy with limited provisions.

"I dinn't quite catch your name, lad," she called over her shoulder.

The Brit shook his head to clear it, then cleared his throat with a small cough.

"Arthur," he said. The girl turned and smiled at him, and Arthur felt his spirits lift, just a little.

"It's a pleasure, Arthur. I'm Caitlin."

"Charmed," said the youth, dipping his head in respect. The girl seemed to stare at him funny for a moment, before nodding in resolution and turning back to the task at hand. The boy watched her work for a while, resting his cheek on a fist, before his curiosity got the best of him:

"Where are you from?" Arthur asked – though in the quiet that followed his words he realized it sounded more like a demand than a question. He let out a long sigh, massaging his temples. She didn't seem affected by his curt tone and carried on working, a pleasant lift to her voice.

"Ah, you can hear it, can't you?"

"Your accent? It's not Scottish."

"Nay, lad, I'm from Ireland. My Father headed out here for work and I got caught up in the war. Laird Graham offered me shelter in return for my services."

"What about your father?"

The woman paused for a moment.

"Killed in the crossfire, I'm afraid. The town we were staying in was ambushed."

She threw the blonde a sad smile, the turned back to the counter.

"Bloody Scots," Arthur hissed. He stiffened at the little, melodious laugh that sounded a bit flat.

"It was the English, actually."

The youth paled, covering his face with a hand.

"Oh, Sorry."

"Don't be, lad, ye had nothin' to do with it."

The woman settled down beside him with a kindly smile and the Brit felt guilt churn in his belly, cold and uncomfortable.

Cait pushed a wooden plate in front of him. His meal was carrots and broccoli – both raw – and a few generous pieces of roast beef, cold, but appetizing nevertheless. Arthur didn't even bother comparing it to the feasts he was used to and dug in with a quick thank you.

"You'll be bunking with lil' Jones, he's an English fellow like yourself, though you wouldn't guess it from his accent. He's got the most curious way of talking."

Cait put her chin in her hand and smiled thoughtfully, and Arthur was far too busy eating – happy to get a fresh taste on his tongue – to answer.

"Ah, but before you go accusing Alistair of kidnappin', the lad's an orphan, left behind by a British raiding party. No one really knows where he came from before that."

"You make Alistair sound like a saint," Arthur noted bitterly, "and please don't try to tell me he is."

Caitlin laughed that lovely, melodious laugh of hers, and in the torchlight the youth noted she was quite pretty. He felt himself redden.

"No, Laird Graham is no saint. He works us hard and is irritable by nature, but he does have a good heart, buried beneath it all."

"Lies," hissed Arthur.

"Not lies. Bias, perhaps, but not lies." The young woman reached up and let her ginger hair tumble from its bun, rubbing at her scalp with a relaxed sigh. "War brings out the worst in everyone, lad."

"Brings out the hero in plenty, too," rebuked the Brit, scarfing down the last of his roast. Cait turned her smile on the blonde – nearly making him choke when he realized his poor display of table manners – and spoke softly:

"Aye, that it does."

Arthur swallowed, then averted his eyes, unable to help the feeling he'd just lost an argument. He said nothing when Cait pushed a goblet of water towards him, but nodded in thanks. As the Brit drank, the girl rose to her feet and stepped around the bench, smoothing out her skirts.

"Right, well, I'll draw you a bath and you can clean yourself up. I'll see if I can't find you some fresher clothes, too – I'll leave them on your bunk for tomorrow." The girl curtsied out of habit before turning to leave. Arthur watched her go, and held her stare when she turned back to add:

"Try and sleep tonight, Arthur, you'll need it for tomorrow – Alistair will be giving you your duties."

And then she was gone, leaving Arthur sitting in the dim light with a terrible feeling of dread settling on his shoulders.

* * *

**Ohohoho, what's this? Another? You bet yer briefs it is!**

**Thank you so much to those of you who reviewed: chukaliteluvver, Sora Resi and Bluebird Rain, I truly appreciate it.**

**So, I suppose it's a little late now, but Arthur drops a lot of f-bombs here (you've been warned!) I know it's probably not historically accurate but shh. It's just easier to read (and to understand) if I cheat a little with the language. Which is also why Scotland's brogue won't be so...blarhglalrgglgr all the time. It's a chore to write.**

**And now I'm off to read more on the second war for Scottish independence. I'm compiling quite the notebook here. I'm trying to be as faithful to the war as I can, but I reserve the right to bend some events for creative freedom!**

**Anyways, it won't be long before I see you again, friends, I promise.**

**Thank you for reading this far, and I thank you in advance for your review!**

**Until next time,**

**Ta~**

**Ami.**


	3. Chapter 3

_You're not as special as you maybe think that you are._

* * *

The bath was not a bath at all, but a shallow barrel filled with cold water.

Arthur really didn't know why he expected any different. Caitlin had other things to do than heat his bath, he was not the lord she had to attend to, and it was not like the servants would be provided with a proper tub. It was nevertheless disappointing when he stepped into the water, excited to scrub himself clean, only to withdraw as if he'd been bitten by just how bloody cold it was.

Following that, he pined for his home in Oxfordshire, where his maids would ensure his bath was warm and he was never still hungry after a meal. It was to the memory of his home that he quickly scrubbed himself raw, trying to spend as little time in the water as he possibly could.

He made a point to ignore the bruises beginning to blossom over his chest and abdomen. Then, they only looked like faint shadows forming over his skin, but Arthur knew by the lingering sting along his ribs that they would be worse in the morning.

_Optimism_, he reminded himself as he stepped out of the bath and began towelling himself dry.

The water was cold, yes, but it was refreshing, and he certainly felt cleaner than he had when he'd entered: at least the servants were provided with soap. Now he could dress in clean clothes and sleep this horrid day off. Nevermind that tomorrow was the start of his own personal hell. Nevermind that he was still hungry and that he missed Alan. Nevermind that he missed England and people who didn't sound like they were snarling all the time.

A draft pulled the young man out of his thoughts and he shivered; the door to the lavatory had been pushed ajar. This was puzzling, because Arthur could clearly remember closing it behind him.

Then the youth heard the patter of little feet beyond the door.

"Hello?"

He was answered with a giggle.

Curious, the Brit wrapped his towel around his waist and poked his head out the door. He was improperly dressed – read, not dressed at all – but he was trying not to think on the proprieties of his old life and instead directing his attention on "here and now."

There was someone in the bunkroom, someone small and someone likely looking for mischief. Arthur stepped out of the lavatory and noticed that the torches that had been out when he'd gone to bathe were lit now. Someone was definitely in the room.

Raising an eyebrow, the Brit had trouble believing it. The room was small, with one door out to what Caitlin had affectionately dubbed the "mess hall" and the other to a shared lavatory. There were many other rooms like this, littered about the wing designated for servants and staff. This was one of the smallest, with only one bunk bed as opposed to three or four, a chest at the foot of it, an empty wardrobe beside the hall door and a small stool beside the lavatory door.

After glancing quickly into the wardrobe and confirming that it was indeed still empty, it dawned on Arthur that there really wasn't many places for someone to hide.

He checked the chest, then got on all fours to check under the bed, unsure why his heart jumped when he stared into the darkness – no one was there. He stood in the centre of the room, confused. He was convinced he had heard a child.

With an absent shrug, Arthur turned his attention to the bunks. There were clothes folded neatly on the bottom mattress. He was left a pair of black trousers, matching shoes, clean white socks, a white undershirt and a vest coloured with the same blue-and-green plaid Arthur had seen the Scotsmen wearing earlier that day. At least he wasn't expected to wear a kilt, too.

There was a note atop the vest, the handwriting neat and legible.

_These are yours to keep, Arthur, and also yours to clean. Keep them tidy, Laird Alistair has an impressive sense of smell._

Caitlin had signed her name at the bottom of the note, and Arthur ran his thumb over the letters. With a thoughtful grunt, Arthur turned to 'his' clothes. If he would be working in them tomorrow, it may be best he not wear them all to bed. He moved the bundle to the stool across the room, keeping only his trousers so he wouldn't be sleeping completely indecent.

After pulling them on and hanging his towel back in the lavatory as he'd been instructed, he returned to the little room and went about putting out the torches one by one, lifting them from their braces and dunking them in a small bucket of water by the door.

When the room was dark and quiet, he staggered to his bunk and tumbled onto the mattress. It was hard and lumpy and old and had a musky odour. Arthur felt his nose scrunch up.

"Ah, no use dwelling on it," he muttered to himself, ignoring how once again his heart had begun to ache for home.

He rolled onto his back, only to seize up in fear at a pair of glittering eyes staring at him at the foot of his bed.

Arthur pushed himself upright, smacking his head off the top bunk but ignoring the burn as he clutched at his chest. It took only a moment for him to realize what he was staring at, but in those brief seconds it felt as if his heart had stopped.

The eyes sat in the head of a young boy, who grinned cheekily at his successful stunt, hanging over the end of his own bed to stare down at Arthur.

"You're the new guy!" said the boy.

Arthur struggled to regain his composure, and it showed in the way he stammered.

"A-ah, you must be...little Jones, was it?"

"Alfred!"

"R-right." The young man let out a shaky chuckle, feeling himself unwind. As his eyes adjusted better to the dark, he could see the boy still grinning, unashamed of the gap in his smile where his two front teeth were missing. "It's nice to meet you, Alfred. I'm Arthur. I hear you're from England as well?"

The boy bobbed his head down and up – upside down as he was.

"Yup! I'unno where though, Alistair says he don't hear many Brits talk like I do."

"Well he's not wrong. You've a very peculiar accent."

"Nuh-uh!" protested the boy suddenly, looking upset. "_You_ have a pe...pecu-liar accent. You sound all stuffy and yuck!"

"Stuffy?" Arthur echoed.

"Stuffy!" Alfred pulled his head up, and the Brit listened to the shift of weight above him before that young face hung over the side of the bed, much closer now. The boy studied the teen for a moment, eyebrows arching up in surprise, then furrowed as he focused. He puffed out his cheeks and reached out, his arms a little too short to actually touch the older boy.

"W-what?"

"Your eyebrows!" Alfred wiggled his own for emphasis, pursing his lips. "They're huuuge!"

Arthur couldn't help how he lifted a hand to his forehead to cover it.

"T-that's rude!"

"Hey! Can I touch 'em?"

"No!"

The boy withdrew his hand and pouted. He glared at the blonde for a full minute, silent, before withdrawing back to his own bunk. Arthur could practically feel the boy's annoyance, it was like a buzz in the air and he couldn't help his guilt. He scooted to the edge of his bed and propped a foot against the ground, standing at his full height to peek over the top bunk.

Alfred sat atop his pillow, his arms folded across his chest. He was staring at his toes, pointedly ignoring the other.

"Come now, you can't be cross with me. You hurt my feelings."

The boy flinched, then turned his head to pout at the wall.

"I'm sorry," Arthur relented "I just wasn't expecting _that_ to be the first thing you noticed about me."

At this, the child turned back.

"What else would I notice?"

And that was when Arthur realized he had no better answer and sighed.

"I suppose you do have a point."

"Hell yeah I do!" Alfred lurched forward, his hand outstretched, and the elder boy barely had time to jerk back, avoiding those wriggling fingers and knowing by that devilish giggle that it had all been a ruse. The Brit huffed and retreated to his own bed, deliberately facing the wall so he wouldn't see those eyes when they peered down at him.

"Really, you've such foul mannerisms," grumbled Arthur, blowing a huff of air out at the wall.

"And you're stuffy!" returned Alfred.

The boy fell silent for a while, though Arthur could hear him shifting around above. Eventually, after the child had settled and the Brit believed he'd drifted off to sleep, Alfred spoke again. "Hey, what do you do here?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What do you do? Like...like are you here to take my job?"

That little voice sounded upset.

"I doubt it, my boy."

"Then what are you here to do?"

To avoid answering the question, Arthur very easily changed the direction of the conversation.

"What's your job?"

"I help Steven look after the horses! And I run errands for Allie when he needs a letter taken into town."

_Allie?_

"I see. So you're like a stable boy?"

"No!" huffed Alfred. "_Steven_ is the stable boy. I'm a helper!"

"A helper?"

"Yeah! I help people, like a good man's s'posed to!."

"...I see."

Arthur bit his lip, not quite fond of how Alistair's servants seemed to paint him in a different light than who he was on the battlefield. But to be fair, it wasn't often _his_ servants would see him on the battlefield, so why would things be any different for the Scottish lord? No, the trouble was not that they thought him to be a decent human being, it was that Arthur sometimes felt inclined to think better of the man because of it.

He didn't want to see the red-haired devil in a better light. He'd seen enough. He couldn't close his eyes without seeing Alan staring at him lifelessly, and he couldn't swallow without remembering the taste of that nauseating cloth, and no amount of scrubbing had completely rid him of the memory of being pressed into the dirt – sandwiched between the mud on that man's boots and the unforgiving earth.

No, he didn't want to know about the man's nicer side. He wanted to hate him. He deserved the hatred.

But, with an obvious gift of saying the wrong thing at the right time, Alfred spoke again.

"Hey, Arthur? Did Allie save you too?"

Arthur clenched his fists and screwed his eyes shut. His teeth ground together and he struggled to remind himself not to be mad at this boy.

"No. He did not." He sounded dismissive.

He meant to.

"Oh. Did he-"

"Goodnight, Alfred."

Telling Caitlin was one thing and sort of unavoidable, given that Arthur had just exploded the moment he could speak again. But he didn't want to be the villain here, he didn't want to have to tell the boy what his beloved lord had done. Let him live a sheltered existence until he figured it out for himself.

Alistair was no role model. He was no saint.

Even so, Arthur did not want to be the one to tell a child everything his hero was not.

* * *

Arthur awoke to the feeling of a tickle on his forehead. Still not entirely awake and certainly not ready to open his eyes, he clumsily rubbed at his head with a hand, thinking the tickle to be some sort of bug. He rolled onto his side and let out a long sigh, ready to settle back to sleep when he heard that mischievous giggle again.

"They're like giant caterpillars!" Arthur groaned internally when he recognized that voice.

"Oi, lil' Al, be nice!" that was the soft, kinder voice of Caitlin. The blonde then decided his wakening could have been much worse.

"He sure sleeps late," Alfred said, trying to keep his voice low and failing quite marvellously at it.

"He had a very rough day yesterday. I'd sleep in a little too, were it me."

He heard that voice drawing closer, and braced himself to be gently shaken. Instead he was nearly crushed under the sudden weight of Alfred as the boy threw himself atop Arthur.

"Wake up, lazy bones!"

Arthur swore and Caitlin called the child back just a little too late. Alfred shook him roughly, his bony knees pressing uncomfortably into the Brit's side.

"I'm awake!" Arthur untangled himself from the thick woollen blanket and shoved the child away, ignoring the way the boy cackled with glee. He rolled and sat up, giving the kid another shove and feeling all too satisfied with himself when he tumbled to the floor. He then found himself staring into the kindly face of Caitlin, who crouched in front of him, his clothes balanced on her knees.

"_Maidin mhaith_, Arthur."

Arthur pulled the blanket up to cover himself, feeling entirely improper for a woman to see him in his drawers, then did a double-take on what she'd just said.

"Beg pardon?"

"Good morning, Arthur," Cait elaborated, while that kindly smile only brightened at his confusion.

"A-ah. Well, good morning to you as well."

Caitlin chuckled, then pushed the little bundle of clothes onto his lap.

"Quickly now, I let you sleep a mite too late. Get dressed and then meet me in the courtyard. I'll give you a quick tour of the grounds before you're to meet with Laird Alistair."

At the mention of the name, all those bitter feelings that had been forgotten with sleep came rushing back and left Arthur with a sour taste in his mouth. He swallowed hard and his eyes fell from her face to his knees.

"Of course," he grumbled.

Cait patted him on the shoulder and turned to leave, dragging Alfred out with her.

With little else to distract him, Arthur managed to dress in record time, and when he pushed his way out the door and into the daylight he was a surprised to find there was a rather noticeable lack of sun.

It's not that it wasn't there, it was just that it was still below the horizon. The beginnings of dawn provided enough light by which to see and the sky was painted a brilliant orange. By the way the pair had spoken, Arthur expected the sun to actually be up.

"This is oversleeping?" he asked as he approached the Irish girl. She stood waiting by the door, a basket hooked over her arm, the contents covered by a thin white cloth.

"Aye, lad, Alistair expects us up before dawn's light to prepare."

"Prepare?" scoffed Arthur. He wasn't used to getting up before the morning sun. "Prepare for what, exactly?"

"Well, the rest of the day, namely. The cooks need to ready his breakfast, while we need to start our duties."

"And what are those, exactly?"

"It's different for every person. Alfred goes to help the stable boy feed the horses, and generally I start on the laundry. For today, however, you and I are going to bring some of the servants a bite to eat while I show you around."

At the mention of food, Arthur's stomach growled. He had thought the noise was quiet, but Caitlin somehow still heard it. She covered her mouth and laughed girlishly, before pulling a roll out of her basket.

"For you, friend. Eat and walk, though, we won't have too much time."

Arthur nodded and fell in step with the girl as he ate. He was shown around the immediate grounds of the estate, and was impressed at how well tended the greenery was. When he asked about it, Caitlin admitted to tending to the land, more out of hobby than appointed task. He was then introduced to Steven, who was a loud, strange-sounding man close to Arthur's age.

He spoke to the touring pair and simultaneously wrestled Alfred with one hand, and told Arthur that his family had moved out here years ago from south England, and that he tended horses as his father had before him. When asked about Alistair, the young man shrugged.

"'es a'right by me I s'pose," he had said, "gives me work 'n keeps me fed. I could be worse off. 'es got a bit o' a temper, though, 'n can be a right nasty bugger when 'es crossed. Jus' keep yer head down 'n you'll be fine."

Arthur made note of that, no matter how bitterly he did so.

The blonde was shown through the main hall, allowed brief glimpses into a small library and the armoury. He was introduced to some of the cooks when he was shown the kitchen, who allowed him to sneak another fresh roll before he was ushered along by Cait. He was shown the study, the dining room, one of the towers and waved in the direction of the lord's living quarters, though advised to stay away from there in the mornings if possible.

All in all, Arthur was surprised by how small it was, considering that his home, Woodstock, was much larger. But he reminded himself that Alistair was a lord, not a king. He had the luxuries granted to a lord, and that was all he needed. It was a nice place, but Arthur didn't intend to stay for long and already began to look for possible escape routes.

He didn't know why he laughed when he was told Alistair didn't have a throne room.

They were beginning to return to the servants' wing when a messenger came running for them, red faced and panting.

"The Laird...Laird Alistair is asking for...for the Kendricks boy..." said the runner between gasps. He was off running again before he'd received an affirmative response, likely to deliver more messages in an obviously limited time frame.

Arthur felt his heart deflate, and no amount of reassuring squeezes Caitlin could give his arm was enough to restore his mood. She accompanied him into the hall where she wished him luck and directed him towards the lord's study. Then she was on her way, able to spare no more time on the newcomer and Arthur was left alone.

With legs like lead, the young man began to trek towards the study, distracting himself with the rushed plans for escape he'd been forming in the back of his head.

The trouble was that there were two gates – the one segregating the estate and then the one that enclosed the settlement down the hill. Slipping out the town gates should be easy enough, but the real trouble would be making it past the guards posted at the castle walls. He would have to slip out under the cover of night – perhaps when someone from the town was coming or going.

But presently he was faced with the obstacle of surviving this meeting, and staring into the wood of the heavy study door, Arthur couldn't shake the terrible dread that had settled once more over his heart.

He took a long breath in, then pushed his way inside.

The room was relatively small and dark, though a large window let a generous amount of natural light in and seemed to make the study feel less cramped. The east wall was lined with books; the west with a stone fireplace that looked like it hadn't been lit in a while. Just in front of the window sat a large mahogany desk, littered with documents and maps.

The room smelled faintly of smoke, which was decidedly not a terrible smell, and was pleasantly warm.

Or perhaps that was just because of the chill Arthur felt when his eyes fell at last upon the lord himself. He sat at the desk on a chair of maroon velvet, his red hair messy and unkempt. Out of the uniform the Brit decided Alistair looked younger, even though he was rough with ruddy stubble.

When Arthur first stepped into the study, the man's eyes were downcast, his hands covering his mouth and nose as he thought. But the Scot was quick to snap his eyes up and fix them on the blonde, lifting his head to rest his chin on his knuckles.

"Dosnae the English ask ye knock before enterin'?" the man asked slowly. It took Arthur a moment to adjust to that accent, and when he truly heard the words that had been spoken, he stiffened at his blunder.

The English did, in fact, expect their servants to knock and ask permission to enter an already occupied room. But of course, Arthur had never really been scolded for ignoring that rule. He couldn't exactly tell Alistair this, so the young man simply stood, habitually folding his hands behind his back.

Alistair grunted, then turned his attention back to the documents. He left Arthur standing there in silence while he read the words on one, glanced at his map, then returned to the words on another. He picked up his quill and made a note of something.

He looked like he was settling back into work.

Arthur furrowed his brow and spoke boldly.

"You were asking after me," he stated.

The man flicked his eyes up, studying the blonde with an expression Arthur couldn't read.

"Aye." The Scot nodded thoughtfully, then turned his attention right back to his notes. Arthur felt frustration begin to bubble under his skin.

"Care to explain what for?"

Alistair said nothing and the youth was left to stew in his annoyance for several long minutes in the uncomfortable silence. He wanted to turn and leave, but he didn't know what kind of reaction he'd be faced with. He knew several cruelties the man was capable of from only one day in his company, and he had no wish to discover more.

So he stood, patient and quiet on the outside while he raged and cursed and swore internally. It wasn't until the Scot looked up at him and laughed did he realize he hadn't quite paid enough attention to his expression to mask it.

Alistair leaned back in his chair, producing a pipe and a small tin from a desk drawer. Without looking up from his act of packing tobacco, he spoke.

"Why do ye think, lad?"

"I was told I would be given a job."

The man chuckled.

"Aye, you were not told wrong."

He lit the pipe with the fire of a desktop candle, then leaned back in his chair to smoke it.

"...And?" prompted Arthur, impatient and bitter. He was answered with a lungful of smoke when the Scot blew in his direction and he did his best to stifle his coughs.

_Rude,_ the blonde noted bitterly.

At least Alistair was softening his accent, because otherwise Arthur wasn't sure he'd have the mind to listen.

"And I figure I'd do ye a kindness," by the smirk on the Scot's face, Arthur couldn't help but to immediately start doubting that 'kindness'.

"Oh?"

"Ye were an attendant to the good prince Kirkland, aye?"

Arthur's blood ran cold.

_Alan_ was _his_ attendant.

"Y-yes."

"Then ye can do the same for me."

"W-what?" Arthur felt like he'd been punched in the chest, his words spoken as only a breath in his shock.

"I've bin needin' a new personal attendant since I lost my last one. I was gonna have the bonnie Cait do it, but if ye got the experience, who am I to waste?"

The man leaned forward and propped an elbow on a desk. His grin was wicked and challenging – daring the youth to argue. Arthur couldn't shake the feeling that Alistair was hoping for a protest and was admittedly intimidated by the glitter of hunger in the man's solid green stare.

"You'll stay close at hand in one of the spare rooms down the hall, you'll be at my side unless I order otherwise, and you'll accompany me on my more diplomatic outings."

In other words, _I'm not letting you out of my sight._

He just wanted the Englishman to suffer, and this was the easiest way to ensure he would.

"Ach, that reminds me, kin ye fight, lad?"

The aforementioned lad was stunned into silence, his eyes wide as he processed exactly what his new life had become. He would be kept in a room away from the other servants, he would spend his waking hours at this demon's side, he could be ordered to do any number of things, should it tickle his _dear laird's_ fancy. He would be the man's dog, free to be humiliated in any way he pleased.

In a moment of panic, Arthur considered confessing his true status, re-introducing himself as Arthur Kirkland, second son to the King of England, then save the man the trouble and impale himself on the first spear he could find. It would be a quicker, kinder experience than the one he would be made to endure.

But...no. Perhaps this wasn't all bad. As a psuedo-steward to this Scot, he'd have more freedoms than a simple servant. Coming and going through the main gates might be a walk in the park, once he'd earned enough trust to be allowed to run a solo errand. Once he'd gotten out of the courtyard, he could flee into the countryside and find the closest British raiding party – no matter how far he had to go.

"Lad?" the man repeated, his head falling to the side in a curious tilt.

"A-ah, y-yes," Arthur scrambled to recall what he'd been asked, "I was taught to fight as a boy, t-to protect Prince Kirkland." It felt weird to speak of himself in the third person, just as it was weird to recall that within these walls, he was a Kendricks. He would have to emulate Alan in whatever he would do – the tasks, the way he would speak, the things he'd learned and done for his lord.

He found himself wishing he'd paid more attention to the mundane little things his friend had done every day to make Arthur's life easier.

"And I believe ye – ignorin' the fact that you let the lad throw 'imself on a sword to protect _you." _The Brit willed every muscle in his body to remain indifferent: to give this Scot nothing more to study, to keep his emotions in check. "Still, I'd like t'see ye in the courtyard in the aft', to test for myself."

Arthur felt a bitter voice rise up inside him.

_Just looking for an excuse to kick me around, yes?_

"O-of course."

"O'course, Laird Alistair," the man corrected with a poisonous smile. Arthur ground his teeth together.

"Of course, _Lord Alistair."_

"Laird," the Scot's mock patience was endless while Arthur could feel his own fraying. He would leap across that desk and strangle the man if this went on much longer.

"_Laird_ Alistair," Arthur snarled in his most horrendous mocking of a Scottish accent, caring not to mind his tongue when he was entertaining a much more violent alternative.

"That'll do, I s'pose," the man relented, leaning back in his chair and giving the youth a dismissive wave. "Now get ye gone, find Cait and give the lass a hand. Be in the yard at noon."

Arthur chose not to speak and settled for forcing himself into a stiff, shallow bow. He straightened out and spun on his heel to leave, only to pause at a sudden, nagging thought in the back of his mind. He didn't bother with formality.

"What happened to your last attendant?"

Arthur threw a look over his shoulder, dismayed at the wolfish grin on the man's face.

"I burned him for treason, lad."

The Brit paled, spun and let himself out with haste, ignoring how Alistair's mocking laughter followed him into the hall.

* * *

**Yeeeees. Personally, I've never been burned at a stake. I imagine it's unpleasant.**

**Alright. Now that we're three chapters in and I have something of a foundation down, I'm going to be altering my updates, partially so I can get a leg up with producing chapters and partially so I can also still submit little one-shots on the side. The next chapter will be uploaded by next Wednesday, though If I find myself getting too far ahead, I'll upload earlier.**

**Thank you to Leo et Lab, KellehKupKake and Sora Resi (serial reviewer! oh snap!) for your comments. I'll get around to personally answering them later(ish), but I want you to know I appreciate your support. I also appreciate the support of those of you who favourited and/or followed, but don't be afraid to let me know what you think. Reviews never fail to make me smile.  
**

**So, as always, I look forward to hearing from you. Thanks so much for reading this far.**

**Until next time, stay beautiful!**

**Ta~**

**Ami.**

**(6/22/13) Edited!**


	4. Chapter 4

"Well, lad," Alistair threw aside his blade and opened his arms wide. Arthur stepped back, weary, and tightened his grip on his borrowed sword. The weapons were slightly dulled, but the cuts on the Brit's face and arms were testament that they could still do damage – not to mention he would be nursing more bruises from where the Scot had given him an unforgiving whack with the flat part of the blade.

They'd been "sparring" for what felt like an eternity; though Arthur hesitated to call this exchange anything but abuse. He was tired and sweaty and his muscles ached from overuse. He hadn't been lying when he said he'd been trained to fight, but his training was in traditional sword fighting and a very structured style at that. The Scot didn't follow any of the rules Arthur had worked to memorize, he acted on instinct and was infuriatingly unpredictable. Not to mention his brute strength often knocked the youth off balance, and it took him longer to wind up a proper swing – giving his opponent all the more time to prepare.

Simply put, Arthur had done next to nothing when it came to fighting in an actual war, and he most certainly hadn't been pitted one-on-one against an opposing general. He was hopelessly outmatched and Alistair had to know it; how could he not?

And when the Scottish lord – thus far unharmed – invited him to attack, Arthur couldn't stop himself. Blinded by frustration and so very tired of being humiliated, he charged forward, attempting to jab his sword into the man's gut.

Without even batting an eye, the lord sidestepped the jab and everything after was a blur until Arthur was on his back. Alistair frowned down at the boy, holding the youth's sword arm out and away from his body by the wrist, while the Scot's right palm pressed into Arthur's throat, his fingers curling around his neck. The young man clawed in vain at the digits choking him with his unarmed hand.

"Ach, I kin see why the young prince didnae rely on ye to protect him," mused the Scot, and the youth burned with shame. Alistair pressed hard down onto the bones in Arthur's wrist and he hissed in pain, dropping his weapon. It clattered into the dirt before his hand was slammed into the earth and pinned there.

Slowly, the man shifted his grip, the fingers of his right hand now pressing into the muscles just under Arthur's jaw. It was no longer a stranglehold, but it was decidedly more painful. It hurt to swallow or shift his jaw in any way.

"Why did he keep ye around, I wonder?"

Arthur tried to drum up words, but found as his throat worked to produce them, Alistair increased the pressure against his jaw and silenced him with pain. He was being pressed into the dirt again and all the Brit could think of was how much he loathed this man. He had no choice but to remain silent and unmoving as the man studied his face with a lazy, confident smile. As they had when they'd first met, Alistair tilted the boy's head to one side, then forced him to turn the other way and all Arthur could do was grit his teeth and think on all the ways one could effectively insult a Scot.

"Must've bin fond of ye. You've got no respect, you're lousy with a sword – surely someone like you didnae do such a good job at your other tasks to justify keepin' ye, so what was it about you?"

The pressure on his jaw eased, and Arthur understood he was allowed to speak.

"Perhaps it was my charm and good looks," he snarled, too bitter to remember he was supposed to be treating this man as his esteemed lord. He'd also come to terms with the possibility that suddenly turning into a model serving boy would not work – he'd already demonstrated a foul temper and a lack of respect for authority. Abolishing these too soon would raise suspicion he was not equipped to deal with.

Thankfully, Alistair seemed to like it when Arthur bit back, and the man laughed at his answer.

"Aye, p'raps it was."

The Scot stood up and brushed his pants off. Part of Arthur wondered why he wasn't in that blasted man-skirt all the time, the other part refused to be curious about anything involving the bastard unless it also involved escaping.

"Clean yerself up, whelp, 'n get ye gone. I expect to see you later."

Arthur didn't question why or when, because frankly he didn't care to hear the answer. He murmured an angry curse instead, a little annoyed when Alistair didn't really take him seriously and laughed again. In retrospect, the laughter was better than being beaten for insubordination, but Arthur wasn't very fond of the _way_ the Scot laughed at him. The sound was harsh and mocking and meant to sting – and it did, every time.

The blonde slowly picked himself out of the dirt, stiff and sore, while Alistair sauntered off without having even broken a sweat. He glared heatedly into the man's back, willing again for god to strike him down for one of the many sins he'd committed that Arthur didn't truly know enough to name.

Asking him to demonstrate his fighting prowess really did just seem like and excuse to kick him around. It had worked, and Arthur had been firmly reminded about just how hard it would be for him to kill the Scot on a one-on-one fight.

Perhaps he was just being told without words that Alistair wouldn't hesitate and could very easily beat him mercilessly should the need arise. Arthur wasn't so much intimidated by the knowledge as he was angered by it. He swore he'd improve – just so he could smack the smug look right off the lord's face. Or maybe, when he escaped, he'd come back with more English and the disinherited and burn the whole place to the ground.

Then when his anger subsided and he remembered Alfred and Cait and the people in the settlement, he wasn't so eager to do so.

Maybe he'd just settle for smacking the smug out of the Scot while everyone watched.

Yes, that sounded ideal.

As Arthur cracked his back and hissed angrily at the stinging of his ribs, Caitlin poked her head around the side of the building and scanned the courtyard. She stepped around the corner, gathered her skirts in her hands, then hurried out to where the blonde stood rolling his shoulders and struggling to catch his breath.

"Arthur!" Cait was there in a heartbeat, her hands on his face, her fingertips gently pressing into his jaw while she turned him this way and that, frowning at the marks and dirt and bruises. Arthur was reminded of the way he'd been turned by Alistair to be studied, but found he much preferred Cait's kindness. "Are you alright, lad?"

"I'm fine." He reached up to grab her wrists and pull her hands away, putting on his most charming smile. She wasn't effected and shook him off. Like a worried mother she brushed at his face, licked her thumb and ran it over one of the cuts on his cheek. He grimaced at the sting, but refused to make a sound.

"He really is just bein' a bully to you, inn't he?"

"You mean to say he doesn't frequently beat his staff 'round the yard?"

Cait shook her head wildly.

"Never!" and then she reconsidered: "Okay, there was a time where Steven made an offhand remark about Scottish swordsmanship, but that was wholly deserved."

Arthur then decided he liked Steven.

Cait continued.

"As far as Lairds and masters go, Alistair is fairly lenient."

"I see, and leniency is being burned alive?"

The ginger looked appalled.

"Did he threaten to do that to you?"

"He may as well have," snarled Arthur, "he told me what happened to his last attendant."

"He...he did?" There was too much confusion and doubt in the girl's tone to go ignored, and the Brit felt his brows furrowing.

"Why? Is it not something he frequently brags about?"

Perhaps the cynicism was unnecessary, but Arthur was sore and tired and couldn't be arsed to mind his tongue here and now. Besides, the girl didn't seem to notice his curt tone or poor manners, stumbling as she was over her response.

"O-oh, no...it's not that. It's just..." The young woman's eyes fell to the side and she looked terribly sad. Suddenly Arthur regretted every curt remark and demand he'd made so far – at least to this poor girl.

"Just...?" he echoed helpfully.

"I-it's not my place to say." Caitlin stepped back and smoothed out her skirts nervously. She seemed to hover awkwardly for a moment before turning away, beginning to say that they should probably get him to his room and that she still had some things she needed to show him before sunset. She barely managed to take a step away before Arthur's hand shot out and he caught the girl by the wrist.

"Please," he whispered, "I'm far from home, tired and hurt in more ways than one and I just want something to make sense...help me make some headway in this hell."

Arthur searched the girl's conflicted expression hopefully, only to feel himself sink as she smiled sadly, pulled out of his grip and walked away.

* * *

The subject was taboo from that point on. Arthur was free to ask as many questions as he wished, but is Cait felt he was wandering too close to something she wasn't comfortable discussing, she showed him her back and quickly turned the subject.

Before bed, he was given another quick tour of the places he'd be frequenting. This included the study, the kitchen, the library and the master's bedroom. He was told it was his duty to fetch the man's pipe and tobacco from the study whenever requested, and to have it ready for him whenever he returned from an outing. A passing maid tittered and joked that the pipe was worth more than he was, and if he ever broke or misplaced it he should take the initiative and kill himself before Alistair could get his hands on him.

It was a _lovely_ thought, and Arthur found himself returning to it whenever someone reminded him of his new lord's foul temper. He decided that before he made his grand escape, he'd be sure the smash the bloody thing – just to add insult to injury.

When asked what being Alistair's personal servant really meant, Cait gave him a funny look.

"Dinn't you do the same for your prince?"

Arthur seized up, and quickly tried to recover.

"Well, I'm just wondering about the key differences or if there's some things I should or should not be doing that I used to do...for prince Alan, meaning."

Caitlin looked at him strangely.

"I can't imagine anything would be too different. Just be sure to be there before he needs you, be swift and try not to give him any reason to beat you."

"Oh, is that all?"

The Irish girl didn't hear the cold sarcasm.

* * *

Of course, it was only natural that the very _first_ thing he did the next day was fail miserably. He was awoken all at once when Alistair burst into his room – a very small bedroom just down the hall from the lord's – swearing and yelling half in English and half in a language Arthur couldn't understand.

He was dragged out of bed by his hair, trying to make sense of words he'd never heard and the unforgiving Scottish brogue that Alistair was doing nothing to soften.

It wasn't until they were halfway down the hall – Arthur still being towed by a vice-grip on his head – that he heard just what he'd messed up on.

"Whit kin' ay daft slae-bairn isnae up afair his master?!"

Oh. The oversleeping thing. Arthur was used to being softly awoken by Alan and the morning sun's first rays. Now, Arthur was supposed to be the one up before dawn with half his duties started and the good mind to wake his lord up on time. It was a hard thing to adjust to in just two day's time, but the reality was by his story he should be used to waking before his master and not sleeping in until whenever he felt good and ready to rise.

"Ye serve me, nae th' other way around!" Alistair yelled, yanking him down the hall steps and out into the yard. "Ye would dae well t'be up an' ready tae kiss arse first hin' in th' morn!"

Arthur was thrown against the front gate in a daze, and before he'd the time to properly react his arms had been jammed through the bars and tied with leather at the wrists on the other side. Alistair swore the entire time, pausing only to knock the youth's head against the gate in a rage.

While the blonde struggled to rally his senses, the Scot whirled and roared at the gatekeeper, who stood at his post looking flabbergasted.

"Lae th' bleedin' Brit tae burn in th' sun!" He pointed a finger at the startled man, who clicked his heels and stood at attention. "Anyain tooch 'im an' ah tak' aff their hans!"

"Och, Aye Sair!"

The lord stomped off, a steady stream of curses trailing from his mouth. The gatekeeper's eyes were sympathetic when he looked to the boy. He was tied to the gate looking both terrified and confused, in nothing more than his trousers with his back to the rising sun.

The man climbed into his lookout without a word and left Arthur to process the entire event again, a little more alert now that the shock was wearing off.

* * *

Steven and Alfred came by at around noon, and Steven drew in a sharp breath between his teeth while Alfred laughed and pointed and laughed some more.

"I see you met Alistair b'fore 'is mornin' smoke."

"Is _that_ what was?" Arthur was in disbelief.

"Allie's a bit of a grump in the morning if he don't wake up right," Alfred elaborated between snickers. "You're gonna have one hell of a burn on your back later."

Arthur wanted to say he was used to the humiliation by now, but he really wasn't. He could already feel his back stinging in the most peculiar places, and after giving it some thought he realized it was because of the gate. The checker pattern of the bars was casting shadows on part on his bare back.

He would be checkered red and white by the afternoon.

He let his head fall back to smack against the bars with a groan.

"I hate ta make your bad day worse, mate, but Al an' I have some errands that need runnin' in town, an' word is no one's allowed to touch yeh or they lose their hands." The young man's smile was caught somewhere between laughter and pity and Arthur decided he didn't like Steven anymore.

The brunet whistled, and the gate was pulled up slowly. Arthur had to stiffen his shoulders so his arms wouldn't pop out of his socket as he was lifted with it. Thankfully the gatekeeper stopped halfway as not to crush the blonde, and Alfred and Steven ducked underneath the bars while Arthur hung overhead pathetically. After the gate had closed and the pair were on their way down the hill – he could still hear Alfred laughing – the Brit began steadily knocking the back of his head against the bars, hoping he could anaesthetize himself and spend the rest of the day blissfully unconscious.

* * *

It was Cait – lovely, saintly Cait – who came to release the boy as the sun began to set. She was huffing and puffing as she hurried across the courtyard, her skirts gathered in her hands in the way that was so _like_ her. Arthur found himself laughing as she reached around his reddened torso to loosen the knots that bound him.

"Oh, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur...What have you done now?"

Arthur kept laughing, feeling delirious and tired and his whole body hurt.

"Sucks to be a Brit in the sun, it does!" he sang, relishing the sting of all of his uncovered skin. Cait made a face as he fell away from the gate and into her arms and she palmed his forehead with worry.

"Oh, lad, you're burnin' up. Come now, we'll get you some water and some ointment for your burns."

She held him gently to steady him as they crossed the courtyard together. The gatekeeper poked his head out his tower to call to them, but he was silenced by a bitter look from the ginger-haired girl and settled for pretending not to see anything. She whispered kind things to him under her breath as they walked together into the front hall.

"You're quite pretty, Caitlin," Arthur chirped, reaching with his free hand to pat the girl on the head. She swatted his hand away.

"You're delirious, Arthur, try 'n focus."

"But I _am_ focused," he protested, pouting like a child, "I'm focused on how nice you look." He reached to stroke at her orange hair again, only to flinch and withdraw at a booming voice.

"_Lassie_, ye had best have a damn good reason to have taken the lad down,"

The pair turned back to the entrance where Alistair stood, leaning against the door jamb with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. While Arthur seemed to withdraw like a scolded puppy, Caitlin's pretty features pulled into a frown. She gently removed the Brit's arm from her shoulders, shushing his frightened protests and telling him to _wait here a moment_. He nodded, wringing his hands in front of his reddened chest and watching as the girl marched back down the hall to where her lord stood.

"Forgive me, Laird Alistair," she paused to curtsey politely in front of the Scot and he stood properly, entirely unprepared for when the little woman pulled back a hand and slapped Alistair across the face.

Arthur tittered scandalously from the end of the hall, hissing a _"he got bloody _smacked,_ right?" _to the empty air beside him. Alistair froze in shock, his hand on his cheek, while the young woman went red in the face with shame and anger and regret.

"Beggin' your pardon, m'laird, but you went too far," she said, her voice firm despite the apology. "The poor lad has been through enough. You killed his friend, yeah? I understand that there are rules to war and you did what you had to in front of your men 'n under the watch of Scotland, but you killed his friend and master and have been nothin' but horrid to him since he arrived."

Arthur managed to reign in his giggles to listen, wide-eyed, to the girl's tirade.

"Yes, he did not preform adequately this morning 'n yes, he did deserve to be scolded for his failures, but you left him roped to the gate _all day_. The poor boy is burnt to a crisp and mad from heat and I dread to think how much longer he would've lasted out there." The girl gestured angrily out the door and towards the gate. "I apologize for going against your orders 'n for raising a hand against you. I will duly accept punishment for my actions, but I beg you allow me to treat the boy so you don't lose yet _another_ attendant."

The Brit managed to recollect enough of his fried brain to understand that Cait had just _slapped_ her lord in his defence. He watched in awe as Alistair recoiled like he'd been smacked a second time when the woman stressed the word 'another'. Then his sanity began to fray again and he laughed aloud because the man looked positively _hilarious_ with that shock on his face.

The pair glanced to him, but he cared little for their stares and kept on laughing. He barely heard Alistair speak.

"Fix him, then, lass."

Then the lord spun and slammed the door behind him as he exited.

Caitlin seemed to deflate, then hurried back to where Arthur had begun to cry.

"Arthur, lad, what's the matter?" she soothed, pressing her lips to his forehead and grimacing at the heat there.

"I don't know," he wailed, "everything hurts."

She shushed him, but petted him sympathetically before leading him back to his room.

* * *

Caitlin spent the evening repairing the blonde's broken mind and nursing his burns. They sat close on twin stools while the young woman patted the angry skin on Arthur's body with cool water. The Brit was still and steadily sipped – as instructed – at the goblet of water she'd fetched for him. They didn't speak much, partially because Arthur was busy trying to piece together when he'd lost his mind and the events that had followed and partially because Cait was absorbed in her work.

When a soothing cream had been rubbed into his skin and he no longer felt like his skull was on fire, he found his good breeding resurfacing.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Think nothin' of it."

He nodded, but continued nevertheless.

"Will you be punished for what you did?"

The Irish girl wrung out the cloth in one bucket before soaking up fresh water from another. With a quiet sigh, she draped the rag over his head.

"It's likely, yes, but I think Alistair has realized he was being a bit unfair. I'll be fine."

Arthur grunted in response, giving the girl a thoughtful stare. He opened his mouth to speak, but never got the chance. The door was thrown open and Lord Alistair strode into the room with a commanding air.

"Out," he snapped, looking pointedly at Caitlin. She looked like she was about to complain, stopped when Arthur nudged her with a foot and gave her a small nod. She pursed her lips together and rose. She quickly emptied the contents of one bucket into the other and stacked the two together. Without a word, she turned to Alistair and swept into a low curtsey, keeping her eyes on the floor as she saw herself out.

Neither man moved, even after the door had shut with a soft click and they were left alone.

Arthur stared up at the Scot, bold and unafraid as the man began to circle him. He felt those eyes studying him and the impressive burn that the day had left on his flesh.

The elder man came to a halt in front of him.

"I have treated ye unfairly," he admitted, though Arthur noted he didn't apologize for it.

"Have you?" Arthur hissed, feeling not brave but very angry – angry enough to risk another punishment just to speak his mind. "I hadn't noticed."

The man did not react to the sarcasm, but sat down on the empty stool and studied the boy's face, this time without grabbing his head to turn him whichever way he pleased. Arthur stared right back. He watched those green eyes linger on his cheeks and his nose – one of the places where he'd burned more severely than others.

"I'd mind yer tongue, boy, as I haven't yet decided whether or not I plan to treat ye any better." Arthur tensed and his skin itched in protest. "Caitlin is a good lass," the lord mused, "she cares where others would not."

Arthur was inclined to agree, thinking back on the way Steven and Alfred and others had failed to assist him and how Caitlin had not even hesitated.

"She's always bin the self sacrificin' type, that girl."

_Self...sacrifice?_

The blonde averted his gaze as he pondered the meaning behind those words. She had put a great risk to herself behaving the way she did to her master, and to hear that master refer to her actions as a 'sacrifice'...It didn't sit well with Arthur, and he summoned the courage to make a demand.

But before he spoke, he thought.

This small act of consideration led to one of Arthur's more graceful moments of handling the Scottish lord.

"If I may ask a favour of you..." he began slowly, lifting his stare back to the Scot who still regarded him with cogitation.

"Aye?"

"You plan to punish her, correct? For the way she acted out?"

The man stroked his chin and let out an affirmative hum.

"I would ask that you refrain, and punish me instead." Arthur swore he saw a smirk stretch out from behind the man's hand. "After all, were it not for my failure she would not have acted out. Ultimately it is my fault, and I wish to accept responsibility."

Alistair raised an eyebrow, and Arthur held his stare with all the level determination he could muster. It seemed like forever had passed before the man gripped his knees and leaned back with a chuckle.

"Yer quite eloquent for a slae-bairn, lad."

Arthur responded without missing a beat:

"I don't know what a slae-bairn is."

He was stunned when the man reached forward and ruffled his hair through the cloth on his head in a manner that could _almost_ be considered affectionate.

"Very well, boy, if ye wish to stand in her place I will allow it."

Arthur really should have been worried for the punishment he would receive, but at that moment in time he could feel nothing but relief for a debt repaid.

"But not tomorrow. Tomorrow ye rest. Stay indoors and stay out of my sight – lest I forget that I decided to let you recover."

And then Alistair stood, so he did not see the surprise on Arthur's face. He stepped around the young man to leave, so he also missed the small, grateful smile that followed the shock. Momentarily, Arthur forgot that he hated this man and could feel nothing but gratitude. He did not turn when he heard the Scot pause at the door, afraid that Alistair might see the happy expression on his face.

"Oh, and boy, fer both our sakes, aft' tomorrow I think it best ye wake before me in the morn'."

Then the door was shut with a soft click and Arthur felt warm for a reason other than his burns.

* * *

**Sunstroke, woo!  
No, wait, I mean  
Oh no, Sunstroke!**

**So guess who is four chapters ahead of schedule? Yes it's me. So here I am, uploading three days early - though I still plan to upload on Wednesday as well. I find myself listening to a lot of D.R.U.G.S. while writing. Don't surprised if one day you find lyrics atop these, I've always thought it would be cool to just start a chapter with one line from a song, and then YOU HAVE TO GO FIGURE OUT WHAT SONG IT IS.**

**I'unno. I amuse easy.**

**As a historical note, the "Disinherited" were technically English loyalists. They were led by an Edward Balliol, who felt cheated out of Scottish lands after the end of the first war for independence and decided to launch the nations into another war in order to get them back. So he and his followers and anyone else who just felt like Scotland needed more conflict sided with the English and Edward III and skipped on up to invade.**

**Fun stuff.**

**So, thanks so much to those of you who reviewed last chapter, and thank you to those of you who are presently following/have favourited this - please don't hesitate to review. I'd love to hear what you think.**

**Looking forward to hearing from you.**

**Thanks so much for reading!**

**Until next time, stay beautiful.**

**Ta~**

**Ami.**


	5. Chapter 5

In a perfect world, Arthur would have woken up the following day right as rain. He fell asleep quickly and slept deeply. It was the first time in days – including some time even before Scotland – that he slept that well. He was unafraid and at peace, and the dreamless sleep was welcome. It was also the first time in a long time he was left to awaken to his own internal clock (though admittedly his subconscious had kicked him awake before dawn, but after realizing today was the last day he could ignore this new instinct, he fell back asleep easily.)

But when his mind began to awaken along with his body, a terrible pain began to eat along his skin. He let out a groan, his burns screaming in the morning glow and try as he may, hiding from the light under the blanket only built up heat and did nothing to ease the sting.

As a result, he spent most of the day lounging in bed, trying not to move too much and kick up new waves of pain with every shift. He half hoped Caitlin would pop in to visit or check on him or just to chat, but today it was little Alfred who popped his head into his room with a tray. Breakfast was simple and small: a roll and an apple. Arthur ate gladly nevertheless, dimly noting that it was getting harder and harder to remember what he used to have for breakfast.

After breaking his fast, Arthur found the energy and pain tolerance to apply to cool ointment left in is room to his burns. Alfred lingered long enough to comment on the strange smell, then dismissed himself under the claim of having better things to do.

Whether or not that was true, the child kept himself away for most of the day, but returned in the afternoon taskless and with time to burn shortly after a maid had brought in a washbasin. When the boy let himself into the room, he was greeted with the sight of Arthur sitting upright in his bed, scratching lightly with his fingernails at the peeling skin on his shoulders.

Arthur was quite disgusted by the dead skin flaking off from his body, but the child who had decided to keep him company was utterly fascinated. After a solid five minutes of rather annoying begging, the Brit caved and allowed the boy to poke and pick at the burns. Complains of "ew, gross" and "oh that's nasty" didn't really seem to hinder the giggling boy from peeling off sheets of dead skin while Arthur grit his teeth and tolerated the pain.

It was as the boy sniggered and scratched at his skin that they heard Alistair roaring nearby. Both flinched at the sound and stared at the door, but after a moment of eavesdropping they realized he wasn't yelling about anything that concerned them. It wasn't the first time Arthur had heard the lord thundering about. Earlier that day he'd been complaining rather passionately about the 'shite ale' he'd received from one of his nobles, claiming the gift was probably some backwards way of rebelling.

This time, however, it seemed the man was up in odds about an entirely different manner, though his language was no less colourful and his voice no less booming. He stormed past the door the boys listened from, hollering about being entirely unprepared for a visit from that flamboyant fuck and lass _I don't care_ if he gave a month's notice. As the voices faded out, Alfred began to giggle. Arthur found it harder to laugh knowing that he would be hearing his own fair share of angry complaints in good time.

By nightfall he was feeling much better. The ointment he religiously applied helped tremendously. It wasn't an instant cure, but it was enough to dull the burn and give the Englishman some more mobility. He ate dinner with Alfred on his bed in likely the best mood he'd been in all day and told stories about England.

He was careful to leave out any extravagant details that might give away his true status – even to a child like Alfred – and instead told stories about the people and the food and the land itself. Alfred, to his credit, listened well and asked many questions, though he lost interest after a while and wanted to talk about his fantasy world where people rode around in carriages with no horses and the where buildings in shining armour scraped the sky.

With the sun setting, Alfred returned to his own quarters for sleep and Arthur was left in peace. He used the opportunity to wash his clothes in the basin provided and hang them from his bed post. In the dark of the night and with a cool breeze on his bare skin, the Brit found it easy to wind back down to return to sleep, his blankets in a heap at the foot of his bed.

The Alistair-free day was a welcome change of pace, though as his eyes fell shut he grimly accepted the fact that it was probably the last one he'd get for a long, long time.

* * *

Miraculously, for the second morning in a row Arthur's subconscious scared him awake before dawn. He bolted upright, staring fearfully at his door for a few moments in a semi-conscious daze expecting the foul-tempered Scot to come bursting through in a rage again.

After a few moments waiting in silence, the youth let himself unwind with a long sigh, cursing the strength of that memory but glad it had the impact enough to rouse him at the right time. Remembering that this was a day he had to carry himself like a servant, Arthur rose quickly to wash up. The clothes hanging on the end of his bed post were still a little wet and terribly cold, but after pulling them on over his burns he found the damp chill to be soothing. They would dry in minutes anyways, so he refused to fret over such small details.

He crept out of his room, aware by now where Alistair slept and afraid of accidentally waking the lord before he was ready. He drifted down the dark hall, counting the doors as he had previously to find the man's study. He knocked nervously (just in case) and then let himself in.

Arthur crossed the room quickly to the man's messy desk. He had fully intended to retrieve just the pipe and leave to go figure out the most appropriate way to wake a lord that had made it very obvious he was not a morning person. Alas, Arthur's curiosity got the best of him and he was distracted for a few precious minutes by the documents on the table. His father would pale at such disorganization, and the youth worked hard to ignore that impulsive itch that hissed at him to fix it. Instead he focused on studying the pages briefly, wondering what it was the lord had been doing earlier.

The most prominent parchment – and the largest by far - was a map, marked with notes in dark ink. His eyes were drawn to little pieces of paper pinned into the wood over the terrain, recognizing the flags drawn on each scrap. They seemed to mark where there was a noticeable deposit of troops of a certain kind.

Their location was marked with a star, and that little symbol told Arthur many of the questions he'd failed to ask – questions that would've been acceptable to ask of Cait or another kindly servant who'd promised to answer him.

Alistair was lord of Forfarshire, that they were in a town called Arbroath, and that the sea was actually quite close – though Arthur had failed to notice it outside. By the sketches on the parchment it seemed like the lord planned to expand closer to the sea– or at least join to the nearby port. It was a touch disheartening to see just how far away they were from the English front, but it gave him some small hope to at least know where he was. Now he at least knew what direction to go when he made his escape – keep the water on his left shoulder and do not stop until he finds his father's army.

He kicked himself out of his thoughts when his burns began to ache – a dull reminder of what the Scot was capable of if he didn't wake with his normal routine. He found the pipe and the small tin of tobacco in the first drawer on the left hand side, then hurried out of the room.

His courage and haste left him at the bedroom door though. From the glimpse he caught on his way by a window, he knew the sun would be up in a matter of minutes, but he was at a loss as to how to handle this situation. How did one wake up a Scottish lord like Alistair? What was he like first thing in the morning? Obviously he had an even shorter fuse than normal, but how did one avoid setting him off? Not to mention that he hadn't woken someone else up as a task since he was very small and would jump on his Nanny's bed well before sunrise.

He was pulled out of his doubts by the approach of one of the maids – a brunette.

"Nervous?" she said, with an accent Arthur couldn't place.

"A little, yes."

"Don't be. You live and learn, right? Whatever happens, you'll be okay."

The girl smiled sweetly at him and patted him on the shoulder before carrying on down the hall, her pigtails bouncing with every step. He had never caught her name and had only seen her a few times in passing, but each time their eyes met she smiled kindly at him, and her hair was always tied in that childish fashion with two bright red ribbons.

Arthur made a mental note to ask her name later, but for the time being he took her advice to heart and opened the door as quietly as he could manage.

The room was illuminated by a very pale glow – the beginnings of the sun's rays as it peeked over the horizon – and Arthur then realized that for a lord, Alistair kept his room very bare. There was a large wardrobe and a chest at the end of a large bed, but little else. The room wasn't very big, either, which was odd because he wasn't expecting something so modest.

Shaking off his first impressions, the youth focused his attention on the bed.

Alistair was nothing more than a lump on the mattress and a mess of red hair poking out from underneath a dark blue blanket.

"...Sir?" he called softly into the silence, afraid to approach and not quite sure what he should be doing. He fidgeted awkwardly with the pipe, standing in front of the door, until the man shifted. Arthur tensed at the motion, only to relax and feel no better when the man stilled again. Holding his breath, the Brit crossed the room to stand beside the grand bed. "Alistair," he was louder this time, "are you awake?"

He received no answer.

Arthur glanced around the room and shuffled uncomfortably where he stood.

What on earth was he doing? He was a prince! A potential King of England! Waking an irritable Scottish lord should be seen as a challenge, not something to dread!

Steeling his nerves, the young man set the pipe and tin on the bedside table, then leaned forward and placed a hand on the mass underneath the blankets. Furrowing his brows, he gave the body beneath his hand a light shake.

"Alistair."

He felt the body shift just slightly and encouraged, he shook the man just a little bit firmer.

"Alistair, sir, it's mor-"

Arthur barely registered the sting of the Scot's hand as it slapped down on his wrist and gripped tight. All at once he was pulled down and thrown onto his back, and in the flurry of sheets and blankets and the snarl of words he didn't understand, the youth lost track of what happened.

When the rustle of fabric settled, he was prone on the mattress under the Scot, his left hand pinned beside his head while his right gripped at the sheets below him in panic. Alistair had the cold steel of a blade pressed into the blonde's adam's apple, only a very small push away from breaking the soft skin of an exposed throat.

Arthur stared up in horror at the face of the Scot, taken aback at the complete lack of expression on the other man's features. Alistair's eyes were open, but his gaze was dull and distant. He panted as if he'd just run for hours, bare-chested and covered in a thin layer of sweat. The blonde was frozen still for several long seconds, afraid to even breathe lest his throat be cut for moving.

It was only after the man blinked and stopped breathing so heavily that Arthur found the courage to speak, trying not to grimace at how his burns ached from the roughhousing.

"Alistair...?"

The Scot blinked at the sound of his name and slowly his eyes came to focus on the face of the boy beneath him.

"You're...you're not..."

Alistair sat back on his heels, releasing his threatening hold on the boy and massaging his temples with a thumb and forefinger, eyes squeezed shut.

No longer at risk of having his throat slit, the boy pushed up onto his elbows, watching the man perched above him with a mix of fascination and fear.

"...Are you alright?" Arthur asked quietly, more concerned for his own immediate safety than Alistair's well being. He knew the bloody git was crazy, he just needed to know whether or not he should be heading for the hills as of five minutes ago.

"A-aye, lad..." Alistair drawled slowly, pulling his hand away from his face. "What are ye doin' in here?"

Arthur laughed in disbelief and fell back against the mattress.

"Just the other day you had me bound to the gate for not waking you!"

The man seemed confused for a moment before understanding dawned on his face.

"Did ye knock, boy?"

The Englishman stiffened.

"W-what?"

"Knock before ye entered, lad. Did ye?"

Arthur's stare fell away and to the right, feeling heat rush to his face at such a simple error he'd been chastised for already. It was enough of an answer for Alistair and the Scot let out a long sigh. The youth grasped for an excuse, looking back up to the man only to flinch as Alistair fell forward suddenly. He squeezed his eyes shut and braced for a painful headbutt, only to feel the mattress depress beside his head.

He opened one eye at a time cautiously, unsure how to feel when his sight was obscured by a broad shoulder. He turned his head, surprised to see Alistair pressing his face into the sheets there.

"May I ask-"

"No. Shut up and be still," Alistair's voice was muffled but no less commanding. Arthur rolled his eyes and did as he was told, wishing once again for the comforts and predictability of home.

But lying there under the bowed Scot, he heard a peculiar noise. It was a very dull, barely audible thudding. It sounded for a moment like the footsteps of a running man, and it wasn't until he listened carefully to the pattern as it slowed did he realize what he was hearing.

Alistair's heart, racing as if he'd had a fright.

Arthur bit his tongue, feeling that of the two, the younger man had more of a right to be terrified. He was startled, yes, but as he focused in on his own heartbeat he realized he'd already calmed. So why hadn't Alistair?

"Are you alright, Alistair?" he asked softly, reaching with a hand to tap lightly on the man's bicep. He didn't understand why the Scot stiffened at his touch, but he wasn't given the time to imagine up some answers. He heard Alistair release the breath he'd been holding into the mattress before he rolled off the youth and rose with his feet on solid ground in one fluid motion.

Arthur picked himself out of the man's bed with far less grace, his leg somehow tangled in the Scot's comforter.

"Ye should learn t'knock, lad. You'd be far less likely to get jumped if you did."

Arthur scoffed.

"Yes, well, most people don't violently jump the person they asked to wake them."

"Aye, tha's true."

The Brit was startled the man surrendered so easily, but did not let his surprise show. He collected the man's pipe and tin from the table and circled the bed to where the Scot stood, facing out the window with one hand buried in that mess of red hair. When the shorter man approached, Alistair turned his stare down to him and raised an eyebrow.

"What's this?"

"Your pipe," Arthur answered flatly, "I was told you fancy a smoke first thing in the morning." He held the items in the flat of his palms as he continued, making no effort to hide the cynicism in his tone. "Although I was also told I wouldn't be assaulted for trying to do my job, but I suppose that was a bold-faced lie in the end, wasn't it?"

Alistair stared for a moment and the pause was long enough to make Arthur worry he'd said too much too freely. But the man laughed and ruffled his hair in a manner very similar to when he'd done it two nights prior. Arthur was just as caught off guard by the second time.

"I like yer fire, boy."

He took his pipe and began packing tobacco, leaving Arthur expectantly waiting for the second half of that remark – the nasty threat that he should mind it 'dosnae brin' ye more trouble than ye kin handle.'

It never came, and Arthur almost found himself missing it – because at least he knew how to handle the threats.

* * *

After that morning, Arthur learned his lesson. Every time he went to wake the lord as the sun rose, he knocked. He took extra care to knock loudly – and often more than once if he thought he had gone unheard – and would wait for the faint, affirmative grunt before entering.

It was how Arthur came to live through his mornings and ensure he would never again find himself pinned beneath the madman with a knife to his throat – a knife Arthur later learned was called a ballock dagger, in an interesting bit of useless Scottish trivia. After being given his pipe, Alistair would dismiss the lad and Arthur would begin warning the emergence of the lord to the servants who scurried about in the halls.

His first order of duty each morning was to check that the cooks had started on breakfast and to make sure the table was set for when the man sauntered out of his quarters. He often just barely had time to meet the settlement's self-proclaimed herald by the castle gates to hear any worthwhile news before he was expected back in the dining hall to ensure the man's meal wasn't poisoned.

After Alistair had watched the youth take the first bite and not keel over in the minutes following, he would happily tuck into breakfast and ask after gossip. It was through this routine that Arthur learned the man was lonely by nature. If, for whatever reason, the boy refused to talk or didn't pay enough attention when the man was telling a story, Alistair would yell or curse or smack the lad upside the head or wave around that dagger.

Most of the time his threats were empty, but Arthur had once learned the hard way that Alistair had no reserves about discipline. It was the morning after Arthur had been soundly beaten into the dirt during one of their sparring matches. He was sore and bitter and decided to give his lord the silent treatment in retaliation for his over application of force in their match.

First, the man threatened to cut off his tongue.

_Ye want to be silent, lad? Fine by me! Allow me t'make it a permanent fixture!_

Then, when Arthur called his bluff and remained quiet even when the man shoved the tip of his dagger into the blonde's mouth, he responded by having a guard bring him a specimen of the vermin that made their homes in the dungeon. He sat on the boy's chest and gripped his cheeks hard and dangled the squealing, squirming rat over his upturned mouth while Arthur begged and pleaded for forgiveness.

When the boy was near tears with disgust, Alistair flung the rodent aside and patted the blonde on the cheek he'd bruised fondly.

"Yer awfully squeamish for a young lad," he mused.

Arthur was glad the lord at least had the good humour to laugh cheerfully when the Brit let a nasty "_fuck you_" slip.

It seemed Alistair drew a great deal of pleasure from tormenting the young man. Often Arthur dreaded the moments where the Scot's schedule was open, because those were the times the lord would dream up ways to make his uptight attendant miserable.

But Alistair was still a lord, and the lord of the very well-established county of Forfarshire, at that. He had responsibilities to the nobles of his faction, which included mediating disputes, appointing roles and deciding power within his territory all while keeping peace with the lords and masters of neighbouring counties.

The Scottish folk, Arthur noticed, were quick to settle matters with brute strength or deadly skill if a diplomatic answer seemed too tiresome. The first time he watched Alistair beat in a man's face with his bare hands he'd blanched at the scene. As it became more happenstance, however, he found himself desensitized to the way the roguish lord would kick around a disrespectful noble until he was bloody and pleading on the floor. Instead he would watch with a detached vexation and wonder absently what the cook would be making for dinner that night.

Sometimes it scared him when he realized how _used_ to the man he was becoming. He still thought often about escaping into the countryside and somehow making it back to England, but he spent far less of his time actively planning how he would make it happen. For the most part he went through the motions, learning how to handle the powder keg of a Scot he was forced to serve and finding joy in the little moments.

In only a few short weeks, Arthur had adapted marvellously to life under the lord's rule. There was only one problem (other than all of Alistair).

Caitlin had never quite forgiven him for taking her punishment – which he made a point not to speak about aloud in case he reminded Alistair that he'd yet to actually be punished exclusively for that time. While she appreciated the young man's chivalry, she was quick to remind him that she was her own woman and not a damsel in distress – that she was more than ready to accept the consequences to her actions.

They still had friendship, but there was a wall there that wasn't there before. In rare moments, though he would never understand it and still often thought it was a product of his overactive imagination, he would catch a glint of jealousy flashing in her stare.

It was almost a month before there was any significant event that threw out his shaky day-to-day routine, and it was Arthur himself who served as the catalyst to that event.

Alistair had hinted a few times at the arrival of an old friend over the weeks, but never lingered on the matter for very long or bothered to make any preparations. This was why Arthur was at a total loss for the man's horrid mood on this particular day and why he made a point to avoid the Scot whenever he could. He even went as far to seek out Steven's company – who could almost always be found in the stables on the castle grounds – to ask about it.

"Ah, so _that man's_ gonna be rollin' into town soon, eh?"

Steven chewed absently on a strand of hay, having listened patiently to Arthur's rant about Alistair's much-shorter-than-usual temper and how he hustled about the castle barking at servants to straighten things up or "stop lookin' so lazy!"

"Don't worry on it, mate. He gets like this whenever 'is bud comes by. He's a bit of a thundercloud before he shows 'cause he usually forgets about it 'till the last minute. Just keep your head down 'n it'll all be over a'fore the end 'o the day."

Steven's personal motto, Arthur had learned, tended to revolve around "keep your head down, mate."

Which is why, when Steven mentioned having to head down into town to pick up a new saddle being crafted for him, Arthur asked to join him.

Of course, Arthur had never been allowed out of the castle grounds before – Alistair still kept him on a very tight leash – so Steven had been hesitant at first.

"Oh please," Arthur scoffed, "his bloody head has been on backwards since he woke up. I spent half the morning helping the cooks control a fire in the kitchen and he didn't even notice I was gone." The Brit hopped off the hay bale he'd been seated on and picked the lingering golden strands from his trousers. "Besides, I'm going stir crazy being cooped up, surrounded by these walls. How would you feel?"

Steven had a love for wide open spaces and riding full tilt on a healthy horse. This was no secret. It was why Arthur knew to try and appeal to Steven of all people for sympathy in this regard. The brunet would've cracked within two days of being forced to stay within the grounds, while Arthur had gone three weeks.

"But the town is bordered by just another wall," the stable boy protested weakly.

"So then what's the problem? Besides, it's still a change of scenery."

Arthur wasn't lying. He was getting sick of the estate grounds and knew just about every inch of it like the back of his hand. He yearned for something new and exiting – for a glimpse of the outside world he was _still_ denied because Alistair didn't trust him not to run.

And truthfully, Arthur wasn't planning on running.

So, when Steven whistled for the gate to open with Arthur in step behind him, the gatekeeper hardly spared them a second glance. Steven came and left as he pleased, due to the fact that he often did business with the blacksmith in town and it wasn't unheard of he brought an assistant along with him to help him carry the wares.

When those gates lifted and Arthur took his first free steps into town, he felt like he was walking on air. His stomach was doing back flips and the first thing he did when the gate fell shut behind them was _breathe._

Steven lead the way down the hill while Arthur did his best to contain his joy. He could have kissed the brunet for this kindness.

For the first time since arriving, Arthur was able to study the town again. He reacquainted himself with the pleasant little homes and shops, ignoring the strange looks the locals would give him when he waved cheerfully or called out a friendly hello. Steven tried at first to shush him, then resigned to walking ahead of the Brit quickly with his head down, pretending he didn't know the cook practically skipping at his heels.

The smithy's workshop was close to the front gates. It was a short, rectangular building of grey stone and scorch marks. The smith had an outdoor forge that Arthur had often seen the glow of from one of the Alistair's towers, but seeing it up close was an entirely new experience. While Steven provided the smith – a large, rugged Scot with monstrous hands – with a list of wares he was expected to bring back to the stables with him, Arthur flitted about the workshop like a dragonfly. He hovered in one place to gawk at a weapon or tool, then zipped across the dirt floor to marvel at something else. For the most part he was ignored by both.

It wasn't until he stopped dead that he drew any sort of attention and even then it was a few seconds too late.

Arthur could see the town gate from the forge, and while he'd seen the thing open and shut many times before – always from a distance much greater than where he stood then – this time he found himself frozen at the sight of it.

The gate had opened and a rather ornate looking carriage had eased inside the town boundaries, pulled by two snow-white horses. By some kind of divine timing, one of the gold-trimmed wheels popped off the axle and rolled away from the gate. The passengers of the carriage cried out from within as the cabin tilted quite suddenly, but Arthur's attention was not on them.

Instead, his green eyes were fixed on the gate. The guards had run off to chase the wheel down and left the doors open and unattended. Arthur was maybe thirty steps from freedom.

All his halfhearted dreams of escape and home came rushing back. Then and there he could no longer remember the friends he'd made over the past month. He forgot all the laughs and stories he'd traded with the others living on the castle grounds. He forgot the way he was learning to live with the lord he served – forgot the times he could forgive the Scot's foul temper and appreciate his good humour and unexpected bouts of modesty and kindness, no matter how few and far between they were.

He forgot the great personal risk Steven had taken bringing him into town.

He forgot that Caitlin had almost forgiven him.

He forgot Alfred's confession that he would be sad if Arthur ever left.

He forgot the shaky trust he had started to build with Alistair, and the habit the man had of ruffling his blonde hair affectionately.

He forgot it all, every piece of his mind robbed by the sight of that open, unprotected gate and replaced by an aching desire for England and freedom. He didn't hear Steven scream for him. He couldn't hear anything beyond the roar of blood in his ears.

His first few steps were shaky, but he'd found his courage before his companion could react.

He didn't feel.

He didn't think.

He just _ran_.

* * *

**BAM  
And he's off!**

**So I got home and had a bit of a panic because my internet was on the fritz, but I have solved the problem and am here to upload, as promised! Also, guess who's now five chapters ahead? Chyeah it's me. I get really excited to write this and then I get home from work and it's a whirlwind of typing up in here.**

**As per usual, I've yet to actually edit this. (I'm both lazy and eager) So I'll probably return to this in a day or so to fix some errors, I don't know if any of you have noticed, but I did fix up the first and second chapters!**

**Anyways, Thanks to all of you who followed, favourited and an extra thanks to those of you who reviewed. You truly don't know how much it means to me to hear from you. I imagine you'll see another chapter from me in a few days.**

**Until then, stay beautiful - and thank you for reading this far!**

**Ta~**

**Ami.**


	6. Chapter 6

The first fifteen seconds were complete and absolute freedom. Arthur sprinted down a dark path that was soft with worn earth. He was surrounded by rolling green fields: the wind whipped through his hair and clothes, the smell of the sea on the air, the sun warm and bright and wonderful.

Then his physical limitations began to catch up with him and his lungs began to burn. He was never much of a runner and though he'd done more physical labour over the past few weeks than he had for most of his life, he still didn't have the endurance to sprint for very long. As he realized he would tire sooner than he would like, his brain caught up with him.

And absolutely _forbade_ any thoughts of stopping.

He pushed himself on with a gasp.

He hadn't heard the words yelled at him as he'd sprinted away from the gates of Arbroath, but their voices had eventually faded and he knew that no one had followed him out. Alas, that did not mean he was safe. He knew that someone was probably already on their way to the estate and that within minutes Alistair would know what he had done.

He wanted to believe the man was done with him. He wanted to think that he'd be told his attendant had bolted at the first sign of freedom and the Scot would wave the news off with a hand and say something to the likes of

"_Let the elements have him."_

and Arthur would be free.

He'd be alone and lost and in a hostile country but he would be free of that man and his whims and foul temper and bi-polar tendencies.

But Arthur knew, he could feel it within his very bones. He knew the man was _not_ done. He'd caught Alistair's thoughtful stare many a time and could never shake the feeling that he was just a piece in a puzzle. Why else would Alistair have put up with the Brit's disobedience and disrespect and kept him on such a short tether, even after all this time? He still wasn't entirely convinced the man hadn't already figured out who he really was. Though Arthur had a good feeling that if he was discovered he'd be publicly executed to boost Scottish morale or dangled over his father's head as a bargaining chip.

But whatever justified Alistair's decision to keep him around, Arthur knew at least one thing for certain: Laird Graham absolutely _hated _to lose.

So if only for that reason alone, Alistair would rally a hunting party and be hot on his heels in no time at all, and he would be _livid._

Arthur ignored the burn of his lungs and the creeping ache in his legs and just kept running. He had to find a place to hide, and at present he was surrounded by fields of green. Picturesque, yes, but not necessarily ideal for losing pursuers. He needed to find somethings like a forest or a ravine or-

A wheat field.

The blonde stumbled down the hill as he jogged, eyes fixed on the patch of yellow terrain just over the next ridge. Twisting to glance behind him, Arthur could see nothing yet, but knew it wouldn't be long before he would see the cloud of dust kicked up by horse hooves.

He entertained the idea of running off the path, but then he'd probably get turned around or even more lost and they were probably fanning out to find him anyways, so he might as well cling to whatever semblance of direction he had access to.

As he forced himself up the second hill and tried to focus on the destination and not the effort it took to reach it, he could hear a distant rumble of thunder.

_On a clear day? That's not thunder. _

He recognized the sound of charging horses and his heart kicked into a frenzy, forcing him faster and faster until he was afraid of falling over his own momentum.

He was shaking and alive when he vaulted the short wooden fence and dove into the tall yellow stalks of the wheat field, keeping low as he continued to run. The semi-crouching stance robbed him of some speed, but at least he wouldn't be as noticeable from a distance.

If his knowledge of rural territory was correct, he would likely find this field attached to a farmhouse or barn or even another field of cabbage or carrots or whatever-it-was Scots grew on their farmland. The bottom line was that it would probably lead him to a place where he could hide until nightfall, when the cover of darkness would protect him as he proceeded further south.

_South? Or Southeast? Or was it southwest? No...West? I should have copied that map._

Arthur furrowed his brow as he pushed through the wheat stalks, trying to ignore how loud that thunderous sound had gotten and how he could hear the war cries of many an angry Scot. Ideally they would just blaze past the wheat field and all Arthur would have to do afterwards is lay low until dusk.

As the sounds got louder, he felt his heart sink. They were definitely slowing down.

Arthur scrambled forward, internalizing his dismay with a stream of nasty curses as he pushed through the wheat.

He didn't get much farther before he realized that the gallop of hooves had stopped.

"_Boy!"_

That was Alistair's voice carrying over the field, and Arthur chanced a look over his shoulder. If he peered carefully through the wheat, he could see that the man had dismounted his horse and now stood on the wooden fence. Of course, it _had_ to be Alistair who found him and _not _someone more agreeable.

With that mental stream of curses only getting more vulgar and loud, Arthur kept pushing on

"_Ye best halt thes pish an' come back."_

No, Arthur would not halt this pish (whatever pish meant) and he most certainly wasn't coming back. He did, however, drop down onto his hands and knees to crawl through the wheat. He felt terribly paranoid that there were eyes on his person.

"_Ye really dorn't want me tae come in efter ye."_

Absently, Arthur noted that the Scot wasn't softening his accent as he sometimes did when speaking to others. He could probably credit that to the man's frustration. He was being yelled at in a very proud, very unapologetic Scottish dialect.

He tried to shush his overactive mind, only to realize the train of thoughts was helping to keep him calm as he pushed on through the plants.

"_I'll forgive ye sooner if ye gae yerself up, lad."_

"No you won't, you bloody liar," he hissed. He could only imagine the severity of the punishment for him when he was caught.

_When?_ He thought bitterly, _If! Arthur, if! If you're caught!_

"_Alrecht, lad, jist remember ye chose thes."_

Arthur almost cried out at the terrible feeling of panic that welled up from his gut when he heard Alistair jump from the fence and begin jogging through the field. A smart man would've pressed flat onto the ground and not moved, but Arthur was too scared to be smart.

He broke into a full sprint, no longer caring if he was spotted and just wanting to get away. Nevermind that his legs were tired and it was hard enough to breathe through the panic attack he was having. Nevermind that Alistair had ridden or horseback all the way out here and was a seasoned warrior and could probably run circles around the Brit on a normal day.

He barely heard Alistair catch up behind him, but he definitely felt the Scot's weight as he was driven to the ground in a flying tackle. He released a strangled cry as they fell, the man's arms a vice around his waist. His jaw smacked against the dirt and Arthur saw stars as the pain vibrated through the rest of his skull.

But he didn't have the time to worry about pain. Some small part of him still believed he could escape.

Alistair picked himself up like lightning, lifting only enough to roll the Brit over before straddling his waist and settling his full weight on the young man's hips. Arthur kicked and shouted, managing to land one solid punch on the man's jaw before Alistair grabbed his wrists. The lord's grip was painful against the his bones as the man wrapped them tight with a thick, scratchy cord of rope, but that did not stop his wild squirming. He bucked and twisted and tried in vain to worm his way out from underneath the heavy Scot.

But Arthur was tired and the whole ordeal was wearing him down. By the time Alistair had finished coiling the rope around his wrists and had looped some of the remainder around his chest, the Brit was spent. He fell back into the dirt in surrender and simply struggled to breathe evenly for the first time since his first few steps. The sky was spinning and he could only really focus on the ache in his skull, blossoming out from what was sure to be a bruise on his jaw later.

His arms were pinned to his sides and trying to move his hands ground that wiry cord into the soft flesh of his wrists. He felt utterly defeated and felt as if his efforts had been lacklustre: as if he could have done more. He didn't notice the way the man cracked his jaw and grimaced, or how he too panted from the drain of their tussle. He probably would have found some pride at his attempt if he had.

It was the first time Alistair had ever been so worked up in his presence.

"Why did ye run?"

Arthur raised his brow in disbelief

"Why?!" he shot back. His mouth worked to form a response, but the noises his throat produced were just incredulous stutters.

_Because I miss my home._

_I thought I could make it._

_You're crazy and you know it and you want everyone else to know it too._

Alistair waited for an answer that wasn't coming, only to repeat that one word and sound almost sad when he did.

"Why, lad? ...Why?"

The British youth did not care to think on why the man sounded so crestfallen. He preferred mentally berating himself for his massive failure of an escape attempt. Between the broad daylight, a dozen witnesses, and an already antsy lord, Arthur had been set up to fail even before he'd decided to run.

Realizing he wasn't going to be getting an answer, Alistair stood and pulled the boy up to his feet by his wrists.

"Walk," he commanded.

Stubborn and angry and still swept up in rebellion, Arthur refused.

So Alistair lifted the wiry Brit and threw him over his shoulder as if he were nothing. He stomped back through the stalks, and it was as they returned to where Alistair's steed brayed impatiently that Arthur realized his error.

As he had fled through the wheat, he left many stalks crushed in his wake. He'd literally made a path for his pursuers to follow in the field. He probably would've been better off if he'd kept running down the road.

Alistair carried Arthur back to the path where two of the lord's guards waited, still perched anxiously atop their own horses. He expected to be thrown over the back of one of the beasts as he had before, but instead he was dumped in the dirt in the middle of the road.

"W-what-?"

It was then that he realized there was still a fair length of rope left free. It was also then that he realized what the lord was planning to do. His heart seized with panic.

"Alistair, please-"

"Silence, lad."

The man climbed up onto his stallion, tying the rope to the horn of his saddle while Arthur watched horrified from the ground. He barked to his men in Gaelic and they all began to move.

Arthur was at first terrified that the man would take off at a gallop and that his last meal would be the dirt of a Forfarshire county road. He couldn't really decide if the slow trot was that better an alternative. It didn't hurt as much to be dragged through the dirt and dust at this pace, but it was well worth its pain in humiliation.

He was dragged all the way back to the settlement like that, tied to Alistair's horse and mopping up mud and dirt and god _forbid_ he think of what else because then he just might have to add vomit to that list.

He wasn't released when they returned to town. If anything, the Scot slowed down deliberately, proceeding up the hill at a snail's pace and giving the people of Arbroath a nice long look at what their esteemed lord had dragged back from the countryside. He was making quite the example of him to the townsfolk who shook their heads and tutted.

He burned with shame, doubly so when he heard the whisper of _'Englishman'_ passed from the lips of one person to the next. The Brit squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn't have to see the stares, but that did little to help as he would never stop _feeling_ them. He almost wished he'd been beaten instead.

The procession came to a halt at the top of the hill and Arthur remained motionless. He was planning to play dead and see how Alistair would react, only to change his mind when he heard someone call out. The voice was tinged with a familiar accent that the Brit felt conditioned to disapprove of.

"Alistair, _mon ami_, whatever are you doing with zat boy?"

Arthur opened his eyes and craned his neck to peer around the mass of horse to where a stranger stood. He was dressed as a noble, but not a Scottish one. That accent – and that attire – belonged to that of a French man.

"Jus' returnin' with the day's game, Francis."

Alistair dismounted to give the man a crushing hug and Arthur wasn't sure what baffled him more – the sight of Alistair hugging someone so fondly or the fact that the blonde-haired francophone didn't even bat an eye at the sight of a young man being dragged behind a horse.

"Ah, well, if _ca c'est tout. C'est magnifique_ to see you again, old friend."

"_Oncle Allie!_"

Another french voice, this one much higher pitched with youth, drew the Brit's attention. A young boy came pelting out of Alistair's estate. The child leaped at the lord, and without hesitating the red-haired man caught him and tossed him up into the air with a laugh, catching him in a hug on his way down.

"Matthew! My how ye have groun!"

The boy in Alistair's arms was the spinning image of Alfred. There were some key differences that Arthur could pick up, even from his awkward vantage point, but the shape of their face was uncannily similar.

"_Oui,_ 'e will be seven at ze end of ze season," said the french noble, not without a tinge of pride as he puffed out his chest.

"_Sept ans!" _the child reiterated cheerily, showing off a full set of perfectly white teeth – another difference, Arthur noted.

While the three laughed with one another, Arthur renewed his squirming. Ideally he'd be able to worm his way out of his binds and slip away to face the wrath of the angry Scot at another time. Although he paled at the idea of abandoning potential witnesses to a murder, he had a sneaking suspicion that the french noble wouldn't admit to seeing anything if asked.

* * *

As an immediate punishment, Arthur was not released.

He was left in his binds, dirty and smelly and painfully bruised, for the rest of the day. What made the whole experience worse was that he was still expected to remain at Alistair's side to serve as his attendant. When Arthur would fall too far behind when they walked or simply whenever the Scot found himself bored (which was often) his rope was given a rough yank. It made the Brit feel like a dog on a lead, and every time he was tugged he reminded himself bitterly that he used to be a _prince of __England._

It didn't help that the fair-haired francophone now and again wrinkled his nose and complained.

"'e's awefully dirty, _non? _And 'e smells absolutely '_orrible."_

"Bin tryin' to teach him to wash," Alistair would joke, knowing full well that Francis was only being impertinent.

* * *

It was quite a while before the Brit was untied, and it wasn't even Alistair to free him.

He'd been abandoned in the dining room, bound to a chair, when the two men left to share a drink in the Scot's study. His wrists were raw and chafed from the rope, he was tired and sore and dismayed that he could never seem to get used to feeling that way. He'd almost resigned to putting his head down on the table and sleeping there when the dining room door opened again and Arthur bolted upright, stiff.

But instead of drunken yelling, Arthur heard giggles and desperate shushing.

"Arthur?" a familiar voice called.

Arthur could have cried then and there, thankful that the good lord above had sent him Alfred and not Alistair. His gratitude was short lived, however, when he heard a second voice cut through the dim.

"A-are you sure zat we are allowed to free 'im?"

"Shh, you! Live a little!"

"Alfred? What are you doing?"

The boy was at the Brit's side in a second, all smiles and mischief as he began pulling at the knots that bound him.

"Letting you go!" Alfred chirped, as if there wasn't anything inherently dangerous about that small act. Arthur could only remember Cait's act of rebellion for his sake; would Alistair want to punish this boy too?

"You'll get in trouble," he warned, not really having the selflessness required to tell the boy not to free him. He wanted to at least be sure Alfred knew what he was getting himself in to. Surprisingly, he was more aware than Arthur ever would have guessed.

"No I won't! See, I planned for this!"

He jerked his head in the direction of the french child, who stood close by, watching with wide, violet eyes. Arthur had forgotten he was there entirely.

"The catch is, you have to play with us! Francy-pants absolutely _spoils_ Mattie. As long as you're with us, Alistair won't get mad, 'cause Francis wouldn't want Matt to get scolded!"

"But...is this really a good idea?"

"Of course it is! I thought of it, didn't I?"

Arthur could only grunt in reluctant agreement as Alfred tugged and picked at the knot at his wrists. He seemed to be having little luck, due to the fact that he'd manage to loosen one part of the rope only to pull another taut and undo his progress. Arthur considered telling the boy his methods were counter productive, but someone else beat him to it.

"Stop eet!" hissed the smaller boy, "You are being too careless! 'Ere, let me 'elp."

Matthew shuffled forward and swatted the other boy's hands away. With care and thought, he pulled at the parts of the knot that Alfred had been ignoring, slowly and methodically loosening the tangle. But before making the final pull, the boy stepped back and gestured to Arthur.

"There," he whispered, "you can finish it now."

Alfred was more than happy to finish the job, giving the rope a good tug as the last knot came undone and the cord fell away. Arthur rubbed gratefully at his wrists, glad to feel cool air on the chafed skin.

"Thank you, boys, I do appreciate it."

"Don't thank us, you gotta play with us, remember?!" Alfred was grinning ear to ear, while Matthew stood just behind him with a modest smile. Looking from one boy to the other, the young man shrugged. How bad could these two be?

"A-alright, what did you want to do?"

The boys exchanged a mischievous look.

"We want to play kings and servants. We're gonna be the kings, and you're gonna be the servant!"

Arthur couldn't help the resurfacing temptation to find Alistair and re-introduce himself as royalty. He knew where the man kept his ballock daggers, so at least he'd have something nearby to kill himself with immediately afterwards.

* * *

Thankfully the boys didn't mistreat him, and Arthur was long overdue for a good day of child's play. He carried the children around the estate on his back, pretended to be the devil so the boys could slay him in the courtyard and then helped the boys run a viking ship in one of the watch towers.

They didn't seem to mind that he was dirty and smelly and his bruises got only easier to ignore.

It helped him forget how much trouble he was in, and he found himself growing quite fond of the pair. They looked so similar they could pass as brothers, and behaved as if they had known each other since birth.

It was over their play session that Arthur learned more about the pair. They would tell him stories between games or make reference to some information while they puttered about the grounds.

They _had_ known each other for years, because Francis and Alistair had been close even before the war – though the boys weren't able to tell him on what terms the men met. Francis often came to visit with news from his homeland, and brought with him Matthew, his soft-spoken son.

Matthew was a pleasant boy, well-mannered and modest – even when he was 'king' and Arthur was the 'slave'. He spoke softly and kindly, often thinking of how Arthur would feel as a person during their games – and not just the character the Brit was supposed to be playing. If something seemed too demeaning or too cruel, Matthew would subtly steer his good friend away from the activity by suggesting something similar.

Arthur noticed the boy had the most respectable talent of coming up with ideas, but wording them in such a way that he guided Alfred to think of them for himself. The louder child claimed many an activity as his idea, but both the Brit and the little francophone knew who really had been pulling the strings.

Alfred, though, was not a bad child in comparison – not by any stretch. His strength came from action, and Arthur learned it had been his idea to set Alistair's attendant free in the first place. He was enthusiastic and playful and difficult to discourage once he'd set his mind to something. He could understand why Alistair might have been fond of the boy.

When the boys' energy began to wane, Alfred made the demand that he carry them to his quarters and read them a story. They were quiet as they passed the lord's study, but all giggles when Arthur threw them onto his mattress. The boys wrestled while Arthur slipped out to procure a book from the library, creeping past the closed study door.

"With zis failure zere is no better time for you act, _mon ami_!"

At the sound of Francis's accent come from the other side of the study door, Arthur felt himself pause. He inched a little closer to the heavy wooden barrier and pressed his ear in to listen.

"Aye, but bonnie Alba is in enough chaos as it is, why throw in my weight and jus' upset her more?"

That was Alistair's voice, sounding strangely humbled.

"_Oui,_ but she will rally behind a leader like you. With _Davide's _fall, zere is a great need for a lord with charisma and strength to strike back against ze English and zere petty _Disinherited._"

"An' all th' good lords of Scotland would agree with ye, 'n proceed tae rip one another to pieces to be that 'one lord'"

Arthur furrowed his brows and held his breath. They were speaking of the war, and from what the Brit could gather, the Scots had just lost a pivotal leader. He wanted to feel glad for the Scottish loss, but he couldn't help but to think of Cait and Steven and little Alfred and worry how they might be treated as Scots under English loyalist rule.

"...What is ze matter, _mon frere?_ Ze Alistair I know is not one to shy from a battle."

"It's not that I'm afraid t'fight, it's that I'm _tired_ o'it,"

"Oh?"

"I will readily raise my fists to defend her from those who wish her harm, but this is not just a case of 'us' against 'them'. This is just as _civilian_ as it is national. I find myself fighting more and more with my own people the further I get from the border. A divided Scotland can win no wars, friend."

It was the most subdued Arthur had ever heard the man speak, his accent so soft it sounded almost pleasant. It may have been because his tone was somber and distant, but Arthur preferred the sound of it to the angry, barely intelligible Scottish yelling he so often struggled to understand.

"I love my home, Francis, which is why I donnae want to see her torn apart from within, as she so often is when she goes to war. She internalizes it and _becomes_ it and we feel the burn of her fury for years after her conflict is settled. We are a people born and bred to fight. I've seen brother strike down brother while both men screamed love and freedom for Alba."

There was a silence, and Arthur felt like he was intruding on a very personal moment, but no amount of propriety could have torn him from that door.

However, the quiet went on for so long that Arthur began to worry he had been discovered and that the two were communicating with looks and motions how to best murder the eavesdropper. Just as the paranoia was about to push him away, he heard Francis speak, quiet and sober.

"Is zat why 'e still lives?"

Arthur froze.

"Aye, ye noticed?"

"'ow could I not? 'is like 'ave been a thorn in my side for years. _Je deteste les Anglais. _I just assumed you would 'ave acted by now."

_Acted on what?_

"Part of me hopes I wilnae have to. I kin barely stand to watch Scotland pull herself apart, I do not want to become one of the reasons for it."

Suddenly, Arthur felt he shouldn't be listening. He backed away from the door, his stomach twisting in discomfort as the voices continued, quieter now. He swallowed heavily, unable to explain his sudden aversion to this conversation but not bothering to question it in the first place.

He distracted himself with the thought of the boys play fighting in his quarters, and his promise to read to them. He hurried down the hall as silently as he could, unable to shake the foreboding that had settled over his shoulders like a vulture: ready to pull him apart the moment he let his weakness show.

* * *

He was stirred when the door opened. It wasn't slammed, but the pace and force behind it was still there. Alistair was in the opening, though the anger on his face dissolved at the sight he was greeted with.

Arthur's eyes were barely open, his expression resigned and distant as he looked to the lord. He was reclined against a stack of pillows, his left arm lifeless in his lap and a book open, face down, on his chest. Matthew was curled into his left side, little fingers gripping the fabric of his vest as he slept soundlessly, eyelids fluttering with the commotion of a dream. Alfred clung tightly to the Brit's right arm, his back pressed into the blonde's flank. His face was hidden, but his chest rose and fell in a pattern of deep sleep.

Those jade eyes, glazed over with sleep, lifted to stare blankly at the Scot who stood frozen at the door. There was no emotion behind that gaze, no force or fire or fear, and Alistair understood that the boy just wasn't conscious enough to manage it. He simply stared, acknowledged that there was another in the room, and then those eyelids began to fall.

Alistair smothered his anger, lingering only long enough to watch the British boy fall back into slumber. Without a word, he turned on his heel and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving the trio undisturbed in the darkness.

* * *

**What's this? Mercy? -gasp- No!**

**So yes. Hi. I'm updating early. This is because I'm now six chapters ahead of schedule and feel as if I need to bridge that gap. So I will also be updating tomorrow, because the next chapter is really quite short and WHY THE HELL NOT? Again, I haven't really proofread this yet. The basic spell-check and skim read, yes, but I'm lazy ): I'll get to it in a few days.**

**I love all of you who have taken the time to review this. Every review I get kicks my butt into high-gear and I just get more excited to write for you guys. So please, keep them coming because they keep me going.**

**Thank you for reading this far, I would love to hear your thoughts!**

**Until tomorrow, stay beautiful!**

**Ta~**

**Ami.**


	7. Chapter 7

It was months before Arthur tried to escape again.

If asked about the event, he wouldn't hesitate to say that for once, he was not at fault. If one caught Alistair in a good mood, the Scot might be inclined to agree.

Things had been improving for Arthur as the weeks changed to months and the months to seasons. He was learning how to handle Alistair's mood swings and crude humour, and it reflected in how he carried himself. His tongue and wit never changed, but he knew when to apply those aspects of his personality and when it was better to just let things slide.

This is why he never challenged why Alistair had yet to punish him for Cait's outspoken behaviour all those weeks ago, and why when Alistair pretended his first escape had never happened, Arthur knew to play along.

Francis and Matthew came by to visit twice more, and each time the older men would lock themselves in the study to bicker and drink and leave the younger man with the children. Of course, in keeping with tradition that was the time Alfred and Matthew monopolized Arthur's time with games and stories.

Living under the Scottish lord had become routine, and memories of living the royal life became harder and harder to recall – though there were times Arthur thought bitterly back to the times where he would've had someone _else_ scrub his armour clean and run his laundry to the maids. He was still expected to wake his lord every morning with the sun, bring him his pipe and then check on the cooks. He still stood patiently by the man while he blabbered about Forfarshire through a mouthful of breakfast. He still was expected to linger in the room when Alistair would meet with nobles, or when the lords of surrounding territories met to bicker about the war, who should be leading the Scottish loyalists or who had ripped off who in a trade.

Once he'd been forced to stand and listen to the lords squabble over a game of cards they'd played years prior when they decided that was the day they would figure out who among them had cheated. Practically all of them eventually confessed to bending the rules in some regard, or sneaking a peak at a neighbour's hand. All of them – he noted – except Alistair, who laughed in the other lord's faces with a

"_Mah mam taught me better, ye cheatin' dunderheids!"_

Of course this had started one of the worst brawls Arthur had witnessed at the table. Lords flew at one another, leaping tables or chairs or even other _people_ to get at their opponent. Despite what had caused the chaos, no one in particular was being targeted. It was as if the men were fighting for the sake of fighting.

Arthur had never quite been able to place what it was that compelled him to act, but when a burly Scot twice his size came up behind Alistair and trapped him in a headlock, the British attendant had responded by grabbing the nearest chair and smashing it over the large man's head.

Later, after seeing the lords out of his estate with as much grace as one could manage with a broken nose and split lip, Alistair had ruffled Arthur's hair in that offhand affectionate manner of his.

"_I knew there was a brawler in ye, lad."_

Arthur had dismissed the instinct to defend his lord as ultimately self-preserving.

"_You'd be absolutely horrid to deal with if you had lost," _was his curt reply, and he turned away before he could see the warm smile on Alistair's bruised face.

Truthfully, Arthur was taking a bit of fighting spirit from his captor-turned-master. They met roughly two times a week so that Alistair could teach his attendant '_te fight like a real man.'_ While Arthur had never once actually won a scuffle, he was no longer the only one to come away with bruises.

It also had become second nature for Arthur to manage some of the other servants when they were in need of direction, especially considering he was sometimes left behind whenever the Scot had to go deal with a more violent altercation on his lands.

He was the one that provided Steven with the list of supplies needed from a nearby trading settlement. He helped Cait create a schedule that the estate maids used to make sure every inch of the castle was kept clean. He was the one in a panic when something was missing from the kitchen and the Lord had guests for a feast – because it was him who Alistair would blame.

He had more or less slipped into the role of Alistair's personal attendant, even though the process was decidedly rocky and never was it entirely natural. He was still tormented when he made an error, and sometimes his lip was punished with a backhand or smack or worse when Alistair was in one of his moods. But for the most part, he started to consider Arbroath his home.

And, quietly to himself when he was sure he was alone, he would admit that he was _maybe_ becoming fond of the headache called Alistair.

Which is why, in resignation of a life he was forced to leave behind, Arthur began bringing England up in conversation. He really didn't mean anything by it. It was his way of saying a reluctant goodbye to his former home. He never spoke of his family as royalty, but as a very large group of people he loved dearly, from his strongly united mother and father to his each of his siblings.

He spoke fondly of the cold, rainy days he'd spend inside playing chess with Alan, of the city he used to love and of the warm days he would spend at the lake. He would even occasionally mention how much easier it was for him to understand people who spoke with a dialect closer to his own. He didn't realize his out loud reminiscing was steadily grinding against Alistair's patience until it was far too late and the damage had been done.

"Do ye think I'll pity you?" Alistair had cut off the boy when he'd begun speaking of a time he'd attended a local English festival and marvelled at the life of it all.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The stories. The memories. The constant reminders of just how much ye wish ye were back in bleedin' England."

Arthur was a little lost for words and it showed in his expression. He fumbled for an answer while Alistair's rage only stewed, evident in how the Scot let his brogue strengthen with every word.

"Are ye hopin' I'll show ye a bit of mercy 'n send ye home t'mam?"

The Englishman recognized the venom in that tone, but he wasn't quite sure what he'd done to deserve it.

"I-I wasn't expecting-"

"O'course ye weren't," Alistair rose from where he was sitting, hunched over a breakfast he'd only been poking at miserably. He approached the blonde, who backed away from the Scot who wore such a dark look. "Ye were just bringin' it up to fill the silence, weren't ye?"

The man's fists were clenched at his sides, and Arthur realized this just as his back connected with the stone wall of the dining hall.

"Well, n-not exactly, I just-"

"Did good _Prince_ Kirkland not work ye like I do, lad? Is that why ye pine fer home? Does _England_ paint a better picture? Are the folk fairer there?"

Alistair stopped barely an inch away.

"Th-that's not it at-"

He was silenced when Alistair slammed his palms into the wall on either side of the youth's head, caging him. His escape was blocked in nearly every way, though he wasn't quite sure he would be able to run. He was paralysed by the aura of danger that surrounded the man.

"_Then donnae brin' it up!"_ he roared. "Yer darlin' _prince_ Alan is dead an' whaur ye like it or nae yer old life _died wi' him!"_

Arthur stared up with wide eyes at the taller man, refusing to cry though every word sunk deep into his heart and began to rot the organ from within. He finally flinched and looked away just before Alistair growled his final thought on the matter, each word rolling from his tongue with enmity:

"Ye. Will. _Ne'er._ Return. Tae. England!"

Arthur's brain shut off and his instincts took over. He brought his fist up quickly into the underside of the man's jaw in an uppercut that would've made a brawler proud. Alistair stumbled back, swearing, into the heavy wooden table, but Arthur didn't wait around to see it. He tore from the room, forbidding himself to cry.

* * *

Neither man was truly surprised by the events that followed. So when Alistair rode up to where Arthur sat, drenched with rainwater at the side of the road, he did not shout or swear or curse.

"I thought I'd be ridin' much longer," he said quietly, dismounting his horse. The beast wandered onto the grass to graze while Alistair approached the boy. Those jade eyes were hollow when they looked up to him; Arthur was paler than usual and shivering from the cold, his lips slowly going blue. Alistair, in contrast, was warm and well-layered, but an impressive bruise was beginning to darken his lower jaw.

"T-the trader f-found me in the back of his c-cart," said Arthur through chattering teeth, "t-told me h-he didn't want to deal w-with any s-stowaways that might bring him t-trouble."

"Ach, ye do brin' that in spades, lad." Arthur went back to staring blankly ahead and Alistair settled into the grass beside him. They sat together in silence for quite some time, listening to the distant rumble of thunder and the patter of rain on the dirt. Arthur sneezed, and with a soft sigh the Scot unhooked his plaid cloak and threw the garment over the boy's shoulders. "Ye got me in a twist, boy."

Arthur scoffed, pitiless.

"I can't let ye go home."

"I know."

The Brit saw he was being watched from the corner of his eye, but he did not turn to face the Scot.

"I s'pose ye did have me feelin' a might guilty." The man crossed his legs and propped his elbow on a knee, resting his cheek on the knuckles of his hand. "Yer a good lad, 'n ye do put up with a lot. I oft' forget yer still young, ye carry yourself proper 'n I know I don't give ye much credit."

Arthur was silent and still stubbornly stared ahead, but that didn't mean he wasn't listening.

"Ye were in the wrong place at the wrong time, 'n I can't change what has happened."

"You _murdered_ Alan," Arthur recalled bitterly.

"Aye," sighed Alistair, "It was nae something I took any pleasure in doing."

"But you still did it."

"War is a horrid thing."

Arthur wanted to argue. He had spent a lot of time quietly missing Alan and wishing that he'd had the fortitude or the courage to behave differently than he had – to save Alan's life. Because in reality, as much as he wanted to, he couldn't pin all the blame on the Scot. Alistair did what was expected of him by his men and his faction in the midst of a barbaric war – as a prince, Arthur understood this.

It is why Arthur blamed himself more than anyone else.

It was _him_ who should have stepped out and taken the sword, if not for Alan than for his country – for the pride of his family. But he had cowed in the bushes while a mere servant took on the responsibilities of a royal and Arthur had let him.

It was his greatest regret and his biggest mistake, and it had cost Alan dearly.

His throat began to feel tight, as if constricted by the feelings of guilt clouding his brain. He narrowed his eyes and dismissed the urge to cry, turning his head away from the fire-haired man in case his composure broke.

"I understand why ye may hate me," Alistair let out a long sigh and ducked his head, running his hand through his hair. He was misinterpreting the blonde's aversion, and Arthur was entirely caught of guard by the quiet confession that followed.

"I jus' wish ye didn't."

The man kept his head down and Arthur finally turned to stare at the Scot thoughtfully.

Did he hate the man?

Often, yes. He was irritable and quick to anger and far too proud for a lord. He was selfish, had a brutish sense of humour and was quick to throw a fist if it meant proving himself to another. And Arthur had learned the hard way that he knew how to break people.

But he was, admittedly, a good man where it counted. He had a strong sense of justice and a soft spot for children that he wasn't ashamed to show when Alfred or Matthew or any of the village kids were around. He was honest and demonstrated his concern where it would matter the most.

He knew his flaws, and part of what made him a good leader in the eyes of others was his courage in expressing them and his ease in accepting them.

Arthur hated the man at times, he couldn't deny that, but there were times where he didn't. Those were the times he watched the man throw Alfred up into the sky, laughing as they wrestled together in the yard. They were the times the man thanked him quietly for a job well done, or told him he'd been working hard and deserved a break. They were the times where – after admitting Arthur's hovering made him antsy – the pair sat together in his study and Alistair worked while his attendant quietly read a book by the fire.

The youth furrowed his brows and sneezed, pulling the cloak tighter around him.

It was a time like this, where Alistair knew full well how he'd driven the boy to flee and handled his anger accordingly. Where he'd ridden out into the rain without aggression, but resignation. Where he'd found the boy and been honest with him, accompanying what may have even been an apology with a small, kind act like lending his cloak.

Arthur sniffed, then stood, turning towards the man and offering Alistair his hand.

"Come on then," he said quietly. Alistair looked up at him and smiled with far more kindness than Arthur was used to. "You need to get me out of the rain."

"Aye lad, but mind yer tongue."

"And when I'm dry and warm again, I shall."

Alistair accepted the youth's help and was pulled to his feet. He clapped the blonde on the shoulders, then pulled the hood of the cloak up over his head.

There were no apologies; Alistair didn't seem like the type of person who knew _how_ to apologize. There were no more quiet confessions and they spoke no more of the matters they had begun to touch upon.

There was only a quiet, almost somber acceptance as Arthur was ushered onto that great white stallion. Not a word was exchanged when Alistair settled behind him, grabbing the reigns and giving them a quick flick.

But for the first time, Alistair let the boy ride with him as an equal, not thrown over the back like merchandise or dragged through the mud like a criminal.

That act alone said more to Arthur than words ever could.

* * *

**Told you it was short.  
B'aaaawwwww**

**Happy Sunday, tout le monde! I hope your weekend is going marvellously (:**

**So here we have some emotional progress and some passing of time. Dysfunctional pairs are always the most fun to write.**

**Thanks for all the prompt and wonderful reviews for the last chapter, I know I didn't get to answering them all (I'm sorry!) so have another chapter to make up for it! As I said, keep those reviews coming because they keep me going. They mean a lot to me.**

**So I imagine I'll talk to you all again Wednesday, if not sooner.**

**Until then, stay beautiful.**

**Ami.**


	8. Chapter 8

The estate was a mess of chaos and panic.

And Arthur, still trying desperately to find some headway in his hell, was in the middle of it all.

"Excuse me, sir."

Arthur turned at the sound of a soft voice, unused to hearing someone call him that.

"Michelle?"

The girl in question stood at the door to the study, wringing the fabric of her dress in her hands, worrying her bottom lip in her teeth. Her brown eyes were wide with fear as she searched his face, looking to draw from his outward stability.

"Do you think he'll be okay? Laird Graham?"

Arthur felt his mouth set into a hard line. He knew she was looking for reassurance: to be told that her life wasn't in danger of being turned upside down and that everything would be okay in the end. A good man would've indulged her – told her whatever would get her through the day.

"I don't know," he said instead, turning back to stare out the window. He didn't want to see the way the brunette began to tear up, knowing full well that it was exactly what she was doing. He could hear it in her voice.

"O-oh...well...what should I do...i-in the meantime?"

The Brit felt uneasy. How long had it been since someone had looked to him to direction, as a source of leadership and not just the mouthpiece for a higher power? Instinctively, he wanted to think back to his days as Prince Arthur, but after a moment of deep thought he realized that even then, he was only an extension of the crown – a place holder in the absence of his father or elder brother.

Arthur sighed, folding his hands behind his back in that polite-and-proper manner he was known for, trying to create an image of normality in any way he could.

"Continue with your duties, Michelle. Straighten up the lord's quarters and make sure everything is in order for when he arrives."

"Alive?"

Arthur deliberately held his tongue, trying his best to tune out the little panicked sob the girl answered his silence with. The blonde turned in time to see her hurrying away, her pigtails bobbing behind her.

The kindly maid wasn't the only one to have turned to him over the past few hours, and she certainly wouldn't be the last. Truthfully, he wasn't entirely sure how to handle this situation – and if the job he was doing was good enough.

* * *

It had started when Steven burst into the kitchen, wild and unhinged.

"Arthur!"

The blonde turned from where he chatted idly with the head cook, a friendly woman named Bella, to take in Steven's frazzled appearance and frown.

"What's the matter?"

"It's...I...J-just come!"

Unable to rally the words, he bolted forward and snatched the Brit's wrist, towing him through the estate with an urgency to his actions that was worrisome. Steven was well known for being very easy going, very come-what-may. For him to get worked up...something dreadful had to have happened.

Arthur initially thought he would have to explain why the stables were on fire, or what had happened to all of Alistair's horses, unable to think of another reason why the stable boy would be so flustered. But instead of being taken to the stables, he was taken to the gates were a man was surrounded by a crowd of castle workers – Cait among them.

"I have the attendant!" Steven announced as he shoved aside a servant and pushed Arthur forward. The blonde found himself looking down on a long-legged man who was doubled over, his hands on his knees as he gasped for air.

"Would someone kindly-"

"Tell him what you told me!" the stable boy demanded, cutting off Arthur before he could finish.

The weary man glanced up, his eyes tired and his face dripping with sweat.

"S-sir," he stammered, and Arthur almost backed away from the address, thinking for a moment that he was talking to someone else. "I-it's about Laird Graham."

The youth let out an affirmative grunt, taking in the worry in the faces around him and the exhaustion of the man before him and bracing for bad news.

"H-he's been wounded in battle – it's bad. It was an ambush by a group of English soldiers. They're bringing him b-back soon, I was sent ahead to warn you."

The crowd around him began to chatter, alive with nerves and worry. Arthur felt a chill creep down his spine and he stepped outside himself for a moment while his brain absorbed the news.

Alistair had left that morning to respond to a messenger's panicked requests for assistance. He had claimed he was from the neighbouring county of Perthshire, and that Disinherited loyalists from Fife had launched an attack on a settlement that was close to the border of the three territories. The Lord of Perthshire had responded and been defeated, and now the platoon was staking a claim in Forfarshire by upsetting a settlement on Lord Graham's lands.

Of course, as was his duty, Alistair rallied his fighters and rode out to quell the rebellion. By the messenger's original report, The Scot had taken more than enough soldiers to help push back the fighting, but now receiving news of an ambush, Arthur realized the only reason they'd let the messenger run for help at all was so that they could lure the rival lord into a trap.

There must have been a second wave of troops waiting for the unsuspecting Forfarshire men to launch themselves into battle.

And now they had news that Alistair was returning at last – though they knew not whether he did so alive or otherwise. The servants were in a panic around him, and Arthur could only stand in shock as his mind worked to put the pieces together.

Then suddenly Cait was at his side, her hands on his arm and her lips at his ear.

"Arthur," she whispered, her voice helping to ground the young man's wandering mind. "They need guidance."

The blonde blinked a few times and turned his stare to the Irish girl, but she could see by the look in his eyes he was not entirely back.

"Arthur," she repeated firmly, "you're his right hand in everything but war. Help settle this before it gets out of control."

She squeezed his arm tightly and gave him a little shake, and after she had done so he shook his head to clear it.

"R-right," he said. "Sorry."

He cleared his throat and stepped into the middle of the disorganized circle, turning his back on the fatigued messenger to address the restless crowd.

"Alright, Lord Graham will be returning soon. We may not know when nor in what condition, but we know he returns." A hush settled over the group as they listened, wide-eyed and eager for direction. Arthur's eyes lingered on Cait and she gave him an encouraging smile. "It is our duty to ensure everything is in order when he does, which includes the state of his home."

The staff exchanged worried looks.

"Steven," the Englishman rounded on the stable boy, who stood a little straighter at the personal address. "Take a horse and fetch the town doctor, see if you can't ride out to meet his party and offer any assistance either of you can provide." The brunet nodded, then took off towards the stables to comply. "The rest of you return to your posts and carry on with your duties. Caitlin, love, keep them busy and make sure no one uses this occurrence as an excuse to neglect their chores."

The woman nodded firmly and turned to herd the crowd back towards the castle. Arthur snatched a man out of the group and pulled him aside.

"You, sir, I'd like you to look after this man here. Take him to one of the guest rooms. Make sure any wounds he has are seen to, I would like to speak with him later if I may, but until then keep him rested and be sure he want for nothing."

The server nodded, then stepped forward to grab the shaken runner and guide him inside.

Arthur followed him in, but split away to do a quick sweep of the castle and ensure no one was lagging about or suffering a panic attack. He eventually found Cait, who was in the dining room and watching a pair of girls dust and sweep with more determination that was likely necessary. He paused at her side, taking comfort in her mere presence while he steeled his nerves.

"You're doin' marvellous," she soothed, giving him one of her kind smiles. "Keep your head up."

"And you?" he returned levelly, "how are you holding up through all of this?"

The ginger sighed and folded her arms under her bust.

"Truthfully, I'm worried, but I can't say I'm surprised."

"No?"

"He's a warlord, first and foremost. He was raised to fight and is one of Scotland's best trained generals. It is he they call when they need a fighter to turn the tides of a battle – or to secure an objective where others may have failed. He's been wounded before – nothing that caused such an uproar, of course – and he's pulled through every other time before."

Despite her optimistic words, her tone was quiet and she sounded as if she'd already braced for the worst. He turned to her, tilting his head as he questioned this.

"You don't sound as confident as you should."

The girl cast her gaze away, and in the silence that followed his pry the maids stopped cleaning. They'd obviously been eavesdropping on their conversation.

"Now ladies," Cait scolded, "I don't recall inviting you to listen."

The girls muttered their apologies and resumed their work. Cait seized Arthur's arm and turned them both. Arthur expected her to scold him too for worrying the maids, but instead she turned that blue-green gaze up to him, looking openly afraid.

"I don't want to see him hurt, Arthur. What would we do without him?"

Arthur didn't want to admit that he did not know.

* * *

It was Alfred he ran into later, running about and spreading the news like a wildfire. Arthur caught him by the arm as he tried to sprint by, stopping the boy dead in his tracks.

"Alfred," he began, and the boy stared down at his shoes with guilt. "What are you doing?"

"...Nothin'"

"Don't lie, lad, it's not proper."

The boy shuffled awkwardly, refusing to meet Arthur's stare, even when the youth ducked his head to his height. With a sigh, he let the boy go and crouched down in front of him.

"It's you who has been spreading the word, correct?"

Alfred mumbled the affirmative.

"Why?"

The child shifted his weight from foot to foot, humming thoughtfully. In this time, Arthur noted that the boy's eyes were red from crying and that his lower lip still trembled.

"Alfred, are you alright?"

As soon as those words left his mouth, Arthur was nearly knocked off balance by the force of the hug he was hit with. Alfred clung to him tightly, shaking as fresh tears began to spill down his cheeks.

"I'm scared, Artie!" he admitted hoarsely, "I'm wanna be a hero and help people, but I didn't help Allie and if he dies then I'll have failed as a hero too!"

Arthur struggled to make sense of the boy's logic until he remembered that Alfred was still only a child. He was scared and trying to deal with his fear however he could – which included wildly spreading the news while subconsciously he hoped someone would comfort him. Arthur held the kid tightly, hitting his knees as he embraced him.

"Shhh," he paused to summon the words required to console the boy. "Hey now," he began, "nothing here is your fault. These things happen and Alistair had to leave you behind because he needed you here, helping everyone stay on task and making sure nothing goes wrong. Nothing has gone wrong _here_, right?"

The boy pulled away to rub at his eyes and shake his head.

"See? You've done a great job so far! He made the right decision leaving you to watch over things." He stroked the child's cherub cheek, brushing away the tears with a thumb. "But your job's not done yet."

"I-it isn't?" the kid stammered, slowly getting a handle on his emotions.

"Good heavens, no! This is the most important part!"

Alfred seemed to straighten at this.

"You have to help keep everyone calm now, because I can't do it alone." The boy wiped his nose with his sleeve and Arthur forgave it – if only because the situation was a stressful one. "I need you to tell everyone that things are going to be okay. You're quick, so you need to keep checking up on Caitlin and the others – you need to be strong for them and help them get through this, okay?"

Alfred seemed to find new purpose in these words and he nodded, managing a determined smile despite the puffy eyes and runny nose.

"Can you do that for me?"

"I can!"

Arthur pulled the boy into another quick hug, then stood.

"Okay, I'm leaving that up to you, then."

Alfred nodded again, taking a moment to draw in a deep breath and Arthur watched with a smile as the child composed himself. He wiped once more at his eyes and sniffed loudly before flashing that gap-toothed grin of his up at the blonde.

"Thanks, Arthur."

"Think nothing of it," he said, waving a hand dismissively, "now, be on your way! And remember, try and keep everyone calm – that's what people really need right now."

* * *

Arthur took his own advice to heart, pausing when he saw a worried face in the hall to make sure the owner of that expression was holding up alright. For the most part, people were worried but fine, and by the time Arthur found his way into the Scot's study, he'd come to a little realization.

The thought of their lord dying was a very real concern for almost everyone within the estate. Months ago, perhaps Arthur's first thoughts at such news would be of freedom and home. With the lord dead, he'd be able to make his much-awaited escape into the countryside and eventually find himself back in England – this entire nightmare having come full circle; to a conclusion at last.

But now it was different.

Now he worried for the people he passed in the hall. He took their pain as his own, he hated seeing their panic and uncertainty. He couldn't close his eyes without seeing Cait's fear, very real in the light of her stare. He could still hear Alfred's sobbing and could remember Steven's utter loss for words at the start of this all. If Alistair died, maybe Arthur could be free, but what would happen to these people the man kept in his estate? Would they be sold to the highest bidder?

He paled to think of fair Caitlin under the scrutiny of a lecherous lord, or little Alfred beaten for showing too much of that life to his new master, or even Steven – worked so hard he began to loathe the horses he tended.

If Laird Graham died, all the people he had amassed here would have their lives flipped in an instant. They would be split up, or sold, or put under the ownership of a new lord who cared little for their individuality or zest for life. The things Alistair tolerated and even embraced would not be the same elsewhere. Everything would change for these people.

Arthur couldn't even bring himself to be bitter when he thought of the massive turn around he'd gone through himself. He couldn't belittle these people and their suffering with thoughts on how _his_ life had been flipped by that man, and not necessarily for the better. He could only worry for them, because he'd come to care for them.

He cared about Cait's friendly smile, her lovely, melodious laugh and even the temper she reserved for those who crossed her.

He cared about little Alfred and his endless supply of energy, how he could make a friend out of anyone and really only wanted to make others happy.

He even cared about Steven and Michelle and Bella and all the people he'd come to associate with in his time here.

And – as he would tell himself for the time being – he cared too for Alistair's good health, if only for the people his death would impact.

He turned thoughtfully to the desk, eyeing the first drawer on the left hand side, while his mind raced and his heart ached with worry.

* * *

"Arthur!"

Arthur pulled his hand out from his pocket and turned to the study door where Cait had appeared, looking dishevelled.

"He's here."

The Brit was on the woman's heels as she lead him out to the yard. The gates were left open, allowing for the entrance of a grim procession.

A big Scot led the way on a painted horse, holding the reigns of Alistair's white stallion in his hands as he lead the beast along. There were two soldiers trotting behind them, while Steven and a pencil-thin man in an apron followed on foot.

Arthur crossed the courtyard first, and once Cait had dismissed her shock she fell in step behind him. As he neared, the youth could see a shape on the stallion's back, covered in a thick cloak of that blue-and-green plaid. His veins pumped panic through his system, though he forced himself to appear calm as he approached.

"Is everything alright?" he addressed the big Scot in the front, who turned instead to stare back at the thin man on foot. Arthur followed his stare and recognized him as the doctor.

"He'll live."

Those two words hit him like a blow to the chest. He didn't even realize he'd been holding his breath until it all left him all at once. He looked to the mass on the white stallion's back, noting the hand that dangled out from under the cloak. He pursed his lips and approached the figure, ignoring the warning grunt from the big man in front as he threw back the cloak.

The relief hit him next in a welcome wave.

Alistair was leaning forward on his horse, his eyes half-lidded as he stared blankly down, probably not completely conscious. His chest was bare and bound with a bloodstained bandage, breathing softly as further evidence to his life.

Arthur turned to the doctor.

"How bad is it?"

The man clicked his tongue.

"It could have been much worse. His wound might have gotten a bit of an infection and I did what I could for the time being. He'll just need to rest and avoid any strenuous activity and he should be back to normal in a few week's time. Of course, I'll keep checking in to make sure he recovers well."

The attendant hummed the affirmative, then nodded his head to the big Scot.

"You. Help me get him to his room, please."

The man grunted again, but dismounted his horse to obey. As the soldier carefully pulled the lord from his steed, Arthur turned to those that had followed.

"Thank you," he nodded to the soldiers, then to the doctor. "We'll take it from here."

As the men retreated back down the hill, Steven took the reigns of the remaining horses and guided them to the stable. It was only after the yard had emptied did Cait crumple to the floor and begin to sob.

"Caitlin?" Arthur was at her side in a heartbeat, smoothing her hair, pressing his lips to her forehead, searching for her eyes in the tangle of her hands. "What's the matter?"

"He's okay!" she pulled her hands down and smiled at Arthur. "He's okay!"

Arthur nodded, dumbfounded.

"I was trying not to show how worried...how scared...But he's okay...we're okay."

And with those words, Arthur understood.

_We're okay._

Their lives would not be flipped. They would not be split and sold and broken. They could continue as they were, overcoming this bump in the road and adding it to their armour. But Arthur was conflicted, as the same did not quite go for him. He doubted Caitlin remembered this, however, for she threw her arms around his neck and sobbed openly into his shoulder, those words a mantra in wake of her heartache.

"We're okay...we're okay..._we're okay."_

* * *

It was just before sunset that Lord Graham's estate was visited by an older man and a young woman on matching grey horses. Their approach was heralded by the gatekeeper, who called for someone to fetch the attendant because he wasn't sure who else to send for. He did not open the gate for the visitors, giving a brief apology for the disrespect and stating,

"I donnae have th' auth'irty to open it for ye, righ' now."

"An' thes chiel does?"

The older man gestured to the blonde youth who stepped out into the light of the setting sun and crossed the yard. He looked tired but maintained his professionalism nevertheless as he approached the gate. He stopped on the other side and swept into a bow, more out of habit than actual respect.

"Sir," he began slowly as he rose, "my apologies for this informality, but you've caught us at a bad time."

The man raised his eyebrow at the boy who spoke with the words of an elder in a tone of indifference. That accent – it was unmistakably British. The man couldn't help but to wonder how an English boy wound up a personal attendant to a Scottish lord so far from the border.

The rider looked from the attendant to his companion, also a blonde that was likely around the same age. His companion, however, was a noble woman. Her blonde locks were up in a tight bun, her jade eyes looking down at the young pauper on the other side of the gate with curiosity. She wrinkled her nose, then mouthed something to her elder companion.

"O'coorse," he muttered to her. He turned his attention back to the man opposite them, "we're haur tae spick wi' Laird Graham."

"I'm afraid he isn't taking visitors at the moment," said the lad flatly.

"He would make an exception fur us, we come frae Perthshire, tae offer an alliance."

"Another time," the blonde made no effort to hide his annoyance, frowning up at the mounted pair as he spoke dismissively, "I will let him know you stopped by."

The man was beyond offended that this mere servant waved them off and turned his back to them. It was what drove him to unsheathe his blade and smack it solidly against the iron bars. The noise succeeded in stopping the youth and prompting him to look back, but he was not intimidated – not in the least.

"If ye don't mind, lad," said the woman in a softer voice, one not so heavily influenced by a Scottish brogue, "it's fairly important that I see him as soon as possible, given the fate o' our lands is in the balance."

"I don't doubt it," the youth shot back quickly, the annoyance having crept into his tone, "but I'm afraid that _now_ is _not_ the time."

The man smacked his blade against the gate a second time, succeeding in drawing that green-eyed stare to him, though there was still no fear in that colour.

"_Lad,_ min' yer tone or I'll hae yer tongue cut aff."

The blonde boy had the audacity to _roll his eyes_ at the threat.

"Tell you what," he said curtly, "I will let the good lord know he had visitors from parth-whatever, yeah? And you'll kindly take yourselves back home and wait until he sends for you."

The elder man's features twisted into a snarl.

"_Laddie, Ah ooght tae come in the-"_

"Da," the woman soothed, reaching over to put her hand on his arm. "We'll come back another time."

The older Scot growled, the sound rumbling in the back of his throat as he inducted the blonde's smug face into his memory. He pointed his blade at the youth.

"Aye, an' wen ah doo-"

"You'll take my tongue, yes, as promised." The man sputtered indignantly at having been cut off so bluntly. "And when that time comes, I'll be waiting," the youth assured, lowering himself into an exaggerated bow. "Until then, my good man, kindly fuck off."

He spun on his heel and marched back to the castle. The woman, not quite as affected by the boy's brazen disrespect, simply huffed and turned her horse, flicking the reigns to trot quickly back down the hill. Her father lingered, however, eyes zeroing in on the back of the boy's skull, burning this moment into his mind and snarling a curse before whipping his horse around to follow his offspring out of town.

* * *

It was a still and silent night that followed the chaotic day. Most residents of the Arbroath estate slept deeply, exhausted from mass panic and unanimously glad the whole event was nothing more than a bad scare. Arthur, however, was not one of those people. He sat beside the lord's bed in a chair he'd brought in from the study, unable to sleep. Alistair was on his back, his face contorted with pain even in slumber, and Arthur watched the expression thoughtfully in the dark.

In his hands, he cradled the man's pipe. He'd pocketed the thing just before Cait interrupted him in the study earlier, when voice in the back of his mind reminded him that the lord liked to smoke as soon as he returned home. Of course, the pipe went unused that day and the tin sat full of fresh ground tobacco on the nightstand.

Arthur turned the pipe over and over in his hands, feeling the smooth wood beneath the pads of his thumbs, studying it more with his touch than his sight.

Every now and again, the young lord would draw a sharp breath between his teeth as he shifted, or groan quietly into the dark. Arthur would lift his eyes to the man in those moments, watching the features of Alistair's face as they pulled into expressions of discomfort and pain.

Eventually, something changed in the atmosphere of the room, and Arthur felt it, no matter how subtle it was. It was why he didn't jump in surprise when Alistair's voice cut through the shadows, quiet but strong, pained but unwavering.

"Why are you still here?"

Arthur lowered his stare to the man's pipe, turning it over again.

"I was told to keep an eye on you overnight. You were running a fever."

There was a pause, in which the younger man lifted his stare to find those green eyes glittering at him in the dark.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

The youth laughed a little and nodded, but took longer to form a proper reply. Instead he noticed how – as he'd heard before when Alistair spoke with Francis in his study – the man's brogue was subdued. It was the weakness that did it this time – or maybe it was just the entire dismal situation; Arthur really wasn't sure.

He continued to turn the pipe in his hands, memorizing its shape in the dark and aware that Alistair's eyes never once left him.

"You could run," the Scot suggested, "I wouldn't be able to chase you as I am." The lord tried to move, only to put pressure on his wounds and hiss in pain, falling back onto his mattress in a heap, his breathing heavy even from such a small act.

"I imagine not, no," Arthur agreed quietly.

"You would be free."

The youth grunted.

"You could return to England, like you wanted."

Arthur stared hard into the pipe, aware that the lord still watched him. The silence stretched between the two for much longer than ever before, and when the lord spoke again, he turned his eyes to stare up at the ceiling, his voice barely more than a whisper in the night.

"So why are you still here?"

.

.

* * *

.

.

When Alistair opened his eyes, he was blinded by the light of the sun streaming through his open window. He cursed quietly, screwing his eyes shut against the glare. It took him a while to adjust, but eventually he was able to open them again, this time lifting an arm to rest against his forehead and provide himself with some shade.

The first thing he noticed was that the chair beside his bed was empty and his pipe was gone.

He wanted to get angry. He wanted to yell and curse and swear. He wanted to roll out of bed and chase _him _down, but the very thought of moving sent such a burn through his chest he had no choice but to lie there and think.

Why wouldn't the boy have left? What reason did he give him to stay? He'd practically _encouraged_ the lad to leave. He'd been expecting it: right after he felt that blade glide through the space between his ribcage, just barely missing his spine, the first thing to cross his mind was

_The lad can run from me now._

And he had. As expected, he'd taken the opportunity he'd been given. Even if he could rally his troops, he wasn't sure he'd catch the boy now – he'd probably crossed into the next county. The reality was he only had to get into Fife and meet with the English loyalists. Alistair had kept this hidden from him over the months, but given the information the boy was presented in light of this entire situation – he could probably have figured it out for himself now.

Alistair knew that the youth wasn't _that_ important. He knew there were people who meant much more than that one English boy. But somehow these thoughts did nothing to ease the burn or the anger or the disappointment in his chest. He hated himself in that moment for the weakness he'd shown. He shouldn't have encouraged the boy to run, he should have threatened him – told him he was welcome to _try_ but he'd drag him back one way or another, that he wouldn't get very far.

He should have had the boy thrown in the dungeons and kept there until he was strong again – strong enough to keep the youth with him despite his protests.

There were so many things he could have done differently – things that would ensure the boy had nowhere else to go.

But he hadn't.

He told the boy to run.

So why was he so upset?

Alistair clenched his fists at his sides and gritted his teeth, entertaining the idea of forcing himself out of bed. Nevermind the pain, he would find that boy and bring him back – back to Arbroath, back to his estate. Politics be damned – he'd put a reward up for the Englishman.

The lingering pain in his abdomen smothered these thoughts and Alistair relaxed all at once into the mattress, squeezing his eyes shut and moving his hand to massage his temples. Of all the things he could've said-

He tensed at a soft click, frozen stiff as he listened to the quiet footfalls of someone crossing the room and approaching the bed. He said nothing as he heard something set down on the nightstand beside him and continued to listen until he heard the depression of the chair beside his bed.

"You should be sleeping."

Alistair couldn't help the grin that stretched over his lips as he slid his hand up his forehead and pulled back a fringe of messy red hair, taking in the sight of Arthur reclined in that chair, looking morose.

"I was about ready to send the town after ye, boy," Alistair didn't bother to try and hide his good cheer, and he received an aberrant stare for it.

"No you weren't, don't lie."

Alistair could only grin, elated to see the lad here, talking with him in that irreverent way of his. He watched the blonde study him, watched those jade eyes narrow suspiciously.

"I know what you're thinking," the Englishman grumbled, giving his eyes a good roll. Alistair didn't care. He just kept grinning. "Stop that. I didn't stay for you."

"Oh?"

Alistair still didn't care. He felt like he'd won.

The youth leaned forward in that chair, propping his elbows on his knees and folding his hands under his chin, giving the smirking Scot a sidelong look.

"I stayed for the people you surround yourself with. For people like Caitlin and Alfred."

"Aye," said the Scot, unable to tame his smile, relishing in the way it made the young man huff as he tried his very best to look indifferent. "But lad,"

Arthur turned those jade eyes on him entirely.

"You still stayed."

* * *

**hi it's wednesday so i'm updating.**

**i also burned my hand really badly at work today so AN is short today**

**please review, it will help me to a speedy recovery **

**until next time and thanks for your support**

**Ami**


	9. Chapter 9

All things considered, Alistair recovered quite quickly. He was back on his feet and ignoring the protests of his staff within the week, and after two he was back to something of a normal schedule. However, to say he was completely healed would be a little impetuous.

There were times where twisting the wrong way made Alistair suddenly roar with pain, kicking off a colourful stream of curses. Arthur had once hurried Alfred out of the room with his hands over the boy's ears after Alistair had tried to reach up for a book on the top shelf in the library. When Arthur returned minutes later – after he'd explained that the boy was _not_ to repeat the words he'd heard his lord use – Alistair was back to trying to reach for the book, ignoring his physical limitation and swearing with every jolt of pain.

He was too irritated by his own weakness to thank Arthur when the lad had grabbed it for him, but there was gratitude in the look he gave him.

There were also times when Alistair's muscles seized up without warning and he toppled over. If he was allowed to hit the floor, the entire experience was incredibly painful and elicited more of the man's colourful vocabulary. It was for that reason that Arthur stuck much closer to the man than he usually would. He never left the lord alone long, and when they were together he was usually only a step away.

He would watch for the signs that indicated a wave of pain, and if those muscles began to tense up Arthur was there to steady him, or catch him as he began to fall, or offer himself as a support while the Scot collected himself.

Because of Lord Graham's weakness, Arthur played a more significant role around the estate than ever before. He puttered around the grounds running errands and delivering messages – mostly to and from Alistair who had been cautioned against overexerting himself. He even once ran into town to fetch the doctor when the Scot had passed out suddenly into his breakfast.

The gatekeeper didn't question the blonde when Arthur demanded he open the gate, and truthfully the youth's eyes only lingered for a moment on the town doors the entire time he was within range of them. It occurred to him how easy it would be to walk out.

He didn't want to think on the reasons why he never did, especially after he was assured that Alistair was fine, just exhausted, and would likely spend some days entirely comatose. He kept telling himself it was for the other servants – for the people he'd come to consider close friends. He was careful never to let himself linger on the thoughts of worry that momentarily burst to the forefront of his mind after watching Alistair's face contort with pain, or hearing that the man had seized up and collapsed when Arthur wasn't around to catch him.

And after three weeks, Arthur was proud of his own patience.

Alistair was so much more irritable than usual, his sleep was fitful and he often awoke roaring from a violent dream, only to scream and curse at the pain his unconscious straining had stirred. His temper reared its ugly head many a time, and more often than not Arthur found himself calmly talking the lord down – ignoring the way he yelled and cursed and threatened.

Like, for example, the time the nobles from Perthshire had sent him something of a get-well present, and much of the French wines they had sent had shattered over a rough stretch of road. Alistair didn't see it as an accident, however, running on very little sleep while his wounds provided him with a constant ache in his side.

"They did it on purpose! They're sendin' me an _insult_," he had snarled, slamming his fist down on his study desk, trying to compose a letter of thanks to return to Perthshire – at Arthur's urging, of course. "_Why _am I thankin' that useless lot for an insult?!"

Arthur had sighed loudly from his chair by the fire and snapped the book he was reading shut with finality.

"You're not thanking them for an insult," he said plainly, "you're thanking them for thinking of you and sending you a gift with well-wishes."

"A _broken_ gift!"

"It was not sent that way, I'm sure."

"How do ye know? Were ye there?" Alistair turned a nasty stare to his attendant, who took none of it to heart. The blonde leaned back in his chair and rested his cheek on his fist.

"I was not there," he admitted.

"Then ye can't be sure, ye liar!" The angry Scot pushed the paper and quill away from him and folded his arms across his chest, doing his very best to maintain his angry expression despite how the action sent waves of pain up his spine.

Arthur's answering tone was malcontented.

"You're being a child, Alistair."

"Mind yer tongue, boy!"

The blonde gave his eyes a good roll.

"Just write the damn note."

"Nae, I _wilnae_!"

The Englishman had regarded the fire-haired lord with an apathetic look. He rose from his chair and threw his book down on the man's desk.

"Fine then. You're the lord, _you_ can behave however callow you want."

And without another word the young man whisked out of the study, leaving Alistair alone at his desk. He didn't actually get very far. He paused only a few steps down the hall to lean against the wall and wait. He could have accurately counted down the seconds it took until he heard the Scot's reluctant tone call out from the study.

"I donnae ken what tae write, lad! I _hate_ pretendin' tae be grateful!"

With a small, private smile, the boy turned back to the study where the Scottish noble gripped his hair with his hands in frustration Arthur shook his head, accepted the unspoken apology and approached the desk to guide the man through gratitude.

It was only one time of many that Arthur had to talk the man down from a tantrum, and by the fourth week he almost had it to an art. In contrast, Alistair had come to expect and tolerate Arthur's curt tone and occasional shortness when he spoke to the person he was supposed to consider his master. Somehow, they made their odd partnership through that time work.

Francis and Matthew came by to visit during Alistair's bitter down-time. And as per usual, the men locked themselves in the study with wine and whiskey. The only difference in this meeting was that Matthew was under the weather when he arrived. Alfred insisted on taking care of him, so the two boys were left with Cait, who monitored the child in ways Al did not. This meant that Arthur was left with nothing to do and no lord to babysit.

Nevertheless Arthur still found himself gravitating towards the study door. At first, he passed it a few times running messages back and fourth to different parts of the castle. Then, when his list of errands that needed running past the lord's study had come to an end, he settled on just flat out eavesdropping. He hadn't done it since the very first time he'd met the decidedly snobbish Francis, and he wasn't quite sure why he was so compelled to do it this time.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that every time Arthur passed the door that day he could hear the men arguing – very obviously struggling to keep their voices hushed.

Holding his breath and moving as slowly as he could, the blonde pressed his ear to the door to listen.

"_eet's been months, Alistair! Months!"_

"Donnae ye dare remind me, _Bonnefoy_."

"I should think I would not 'ave to! I thought eet would be done by now!"

Arthur recalled the last time he'd listened in on their conversation. They'd been discussing the fall of a Scottish leader – David II, Arthur learned through Cait later – and the Francophone had been pushing Alistair to make a move.

"What is there tae do?"

"_Use_ your _resources, mon ami_"

"We discussed this," Arthur almost recoiled at the force behind the Scot's growl, and it wasn't even directed at him.

"_Non, mon cher, _we did not. I brought it up, and you _absolument_ refused to talk about it."

"Ah've made enough o' a name fer myself through my acts as a warrior."

"_Je sais que oui._ But you could be _more_, Alistair! Robert Stewart does not 'old the loyalties of all ze Scottish Rebels."

"Because there is tae much unrest in the ranks from lairds squabblin' fer power."

"_Unworthy_ lords, Alistair! I 'ave met plenty of them! None of them even come close to 'aving the same credentials as you!"

There was a sudden bang – one that made Arthur leap back – and then a long sigh.

"Why does this matter so much tae ye, Francis?"

"_Mon ami, mon frere, _I 'aven't a doubt in my mind that you could be king if you set your mind to it – every piece is available to you, you just need to play them!"

"Again, Francis, _why?_"

Arthur held his breath through the long silence that followed, broken when the Frenchman spoke in a voice so quiet that Arthur strained to hear it.

"I remember your roots, Alistair. I 'ave only ever wished the best for you after that."

The Brit felt that familiar pressure on his chest – the pressure that told him he shouldn't be listening anymore and that he had heard enough. He ignored the instinct and stayed to hear Alistair's response, fascinated by the humility in his tone.

"Ye ken, Francis, that I call only you _brither_."

"_Oui."_

Another long pause, and then:

"You're right." Arthur could almost see the man curling his fingers into his hair to pull at his scalp in frustration, his brogue subdued with fatigue. "I should have acted by now, I had every intention to at first – I just..."

There was a long pause and Arthur too, began to question why Alistair seemed so hesitant to throw his metaphorical hat in to the Scottish ring. It seemed to the former prince that the fire-haired lord had everything he needed to lead, and everything he needed to take that leadership by force.

He was a well decorated officer, he was renowned for his fighting skill and had a whole county ready to take up arms at his command. Were there such a man in England that had not already been appointed a title and made a royal commander, Arthur was sure his father would have done so in a heartbeat. It was men like Alistair that made kings nervous.

Then Francis spoke again, but his words were quiet and but a murmur through the heavy wood of the door. Arthur couldn't make out what he was saying, though there was no way he could have not heard Alistair.

"_How dare ye!"_ the Scot roared, and there was the familiar clatter of the lord's chair tipping to the ground. He heard another loud thump, then the telltale footsteps of a man stomping towards the door.

In a panic, the youth scrambled away, fleeing on his toes down the hall and ducking into the first dark room he could – a broom closet, cluttered with supplies.

He heard the study door slam open and peered around the corner to see Alistair limp out, holding tightly to his side as he thundered down the hall and away from where Arthur stood hidden. Francis scurried out after him.

"Alistair!" he cried "Your wounds!"

But in a violent display of just how much those wounds _were not_ bothering him, the Scot whirled and slammed the blonde man up against the wall, grabbing fists full of his collar.

Arthur pressed his back to the wall, listening to that familiar, dangerous whisper as it carried down the hall.

"How _dare_ ye," Alistair repeated, "I donnae- ..I have not-" he fumbled for words in his rage. He growled at his blunder, then composed himself and tried again:

"I _am not_ weak."

Francis held up admirably well pressed into the wall, and there was no trace of fear in his voice when he spoke.

"I did not say that, _frere. _Why do you?"

Alistair answered with a snarl, then pushed away from the Frenchman and the wall and carried on limping angrily down the hall. Arthur let out a quiet sigh as he felt the oppressive, dangerous aura of the livid Scottish lord fade as he left. He did not see the curious look the blonde man cast in his direction, but stayed hidden nevertheless until he too left at last.

* * *

After that, Alistair's was even quicker to anger and Arthur found himself cursing the Frenchman for working Lord Graham into such a state. It was more taxing on the young blonde to deal with the impossibly short fuse to the powder keg of a Scot, but somehow he managed.

Even in meetings, where Alistair's perpetual irritation put him at risk of starting a fight with the nobles he invited into his court, Arthur was there with a firm hand on his shoulder, quietly scolding him for letting his temper get the best of him. Most of the time he managed to stop the lord from exploding when he couldn't handle the physical repercussions of it. But by the middle of the sixth week, Alistair was itching for a fight and Arthur had heard the noble whisper to his steward that the blonde looked awfully _scrawny_ for a lad his age. It was both of these factors that prompted Arthur to look the other way when the man made a snide remark about how Alistair had gotten soft over his recovery period.

The man and his steward left the estate trying desperately to stop the fountain of blood coming from the noble's nose, disregarding the black eye and cracked rib. They shuffled a little faster when Alistair stuck his head out the door and yelled after them:

"_An' tha' was mah fists outta practice, ye git!"_

And Arthur stood with a sly smile in the shadows beside the door, unable to help feeling some personal satisfaction with Alistair's success.

Of course, once word got out that Alistair was back to beating in the faces of those who disrespected him, a messenger from Perthshire rode up with a new basket of gifts. This time, none of the wines were cracked and the man carried a letter with him.

* * *

"Why dinn't ye tell me the lord o' Perthshire had bin by?" Alistair paced in front of his fireplace in the study, with Arthur standing by the desk as he re-read the letter.

"I did," the youth stated simply, eyes scanning the parchment with a frown. "Several times, mind you."

"An' why dinn't ye make sure I _heard_ ye?"

Arthur huffed, tossing the letter away.

"Again, _I did._ You commented on my choice of farewell, I remember."

Alistair threw up his arms in exasperation before pointing accusingly at the blonde who scowled right back at him.

"Ye dinn't make sure _I_ _remembered_ now, did ye, lad?"

"Bugger off, you twit!" Alistair's hackles rose, and Arthur responded in kind. "It's not my fault you've the brain the size of a fucking _pea_." Without missing a beat, Arthur ducked to avoid the ornate candlestick the lord pulled off the mantle and whipped at him. The silver ornament collided with the bookshelves behind the attendant with an impressive thud.

"Ye want tae spend the night in a cage, brat?"

Alistair of course was referring to the dungeon – one Arthur didn't even know existed until he was locked down there overnight after laughing when Alistair came out of his quarters dressed to quell a minor uprising in his territory. He still didn't see the appeal in kilts, he thought that men looked _ridiculous_ in the plaid skirts.

"Fine, but it wouldn't change the fact that I'm _right."_

The lord fumed for a few moments longer, glaring at the English teen who glared right back, unafraid. They held each other in a hostile stand off for a few moments before Alistair scoffed and turned to begin pacing again. Arthur let his own aggression fizzle down, understanding that his lord had accepted his fault – even if he had not done so out loud.

"I don't see what you're so worked up about," Arthur continued, "it's not like they're staying, right? They letter said they would be up for the day and ride home at dusk. You deal with more when that French fuck drops in unannounced."

"Oi, lad, that French fuck is like a brither t'me."

"But no less French, and you can't scold me for insulting him and then call him just the same!"

Alistair snorted and waved a hand. He stormed around his desk, watching as Arthur took a few measured steps away – leaving just enough space for him to react should the Scot throw something again. He threw himself in his chair and ran his hands through that wild mop of red.

"It's wha' they want tae talk about tha' worries me." Alistair glared at the letter for a few moments of silence before crumpling it up and tossing it at the fire. He missed, but Arthur habitually went to kick the parchment into the flames.

"And just what is it they wish to discuss?"

Instead of answering, Alistair propped his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers together. With a thoughtful sigh, those green eyes fixed to his reluctant attendant and studied him. For a while, Arthur held up admirably under the scrutiny, but his patience had his limits – even with the Scottish lord he'd learned to tolerate.

"What?" he snapped.

When the lord answered, he spoke slowly, as if giving each word an uncharacteristic amount of thought.

"Given th' recent English activity in th' area, they are hopin' to go abouts formin' an alliance."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Not inherently, nae."

"So what's the problem?"

Alistair didn't answer at first and instead kept studying his attendant with a blank expression. This time, Arthur made no effort to hide his annoyance and let it show clear as day on his face. He wasn't kept waiting as long this time.

"They want a union in th' eyes o' th' Guid Laird."

"The eyes of the what, sorry?" Arthur had no more patience left with which to interpret the man's Scottish lingo.

"A weddin', boy."

Contempt hit Arthur all at once, though he was at a loss to explain it. He pretended not to understand, furrowing his brow – but not from confusion.

"A wedding?"

"Aye. Laird Duff would have me wed his daughter."

Arthur couldn't settle on an emotion, so he simply detached his brain from his heart and focused only on the former.

"Why?"

The Scot shrugged, leaning back and fumbling for his pipe in the first drawer on the left – a location Arthur had memorized.

"The lass is of age, he wants t'make a wife out o' her, 'n it's a good way to ascertain a truce." Alistair lit his pipe and took a long breath in of tobacco smoke. He breathed it out at Arthur, who never failed to grimace at the scent of it. "'M sure it's the same in England."

It took the boy a moment to realize he was expected to answer.

"O-oh. It is."

But his hesitance and his stutter had not been missed and the man leaned forward in his chair, squinting at the blonde whose face was a now a mask.

"Is there a problem wi' that, lad?"

Arthur lifted his gaze from the desk to the man seated behind it. For a moment, he could have sworn that was a hopeful look on Alistair's face, but it was dissolved by the smoke in the air and the youth decided it looked more mocking.

The boy huffed, blowing the smoke away that lingered by his face and forced himself to calm. He didn't want to think on the way his heart suddenly ached, or how he wanted to shake and get mad and just yell. He was sure if he lingered too long on those thoughts he would begin to understand them.

He didn't want to understand.

So he straightened out and steeled his nerves, thinking of the way frost settled on the autumn fields.

"Not at all," he responded, his voice strong and level and everything he was presently not. Alistair seemed to withdraw, the glint in his eyes something Arthur could not name. "How do you plan to respond?"

Everything was business as usual.

"'m not sure yet," Alistair sang with a shrug, "s'pose I should meet the lass, put on a good show." He gave Arthur a suggestive wink, but the youth did not flush at the indecency as he may have at another time. He was made of stone when he ducked into a shallow bow.

"Then I will leave to make the necessary preparations."

He was gone before Alistair could say anything more on the matter, and Arthur was relieved when the man didn't call him back.

* * *

There were two days between that meeting and when the Perthshire duo were expected to arrive, and Arthur spent them distant. He drifted about the grounds with his mind anywhere but in Scotland. He woke Alistair up in the morning as usual, but did not respond to the playful jabs and insults the lord threw at him. He was quiet and obedient and everything a good servant should be, treating the man with the respect a true lord deserved and nothing more.

He was hollow when the Scot swore at him for dropping an expensive dish, and instead of yelling right back Arthur found a quiet apology tumbling from his lips. He'd bent down to clean the shards with his bare hands and he jumped when Alistair caught his chin with his fingers, and Arthur had simultaneously sliced one of his own on one of the sharp edges.

"Yer bein' an awful bore," Alistair had mused, his grip tight on the youth's face as his eyes narrowed. Arthur wanted to get mad, he truly did. But he couldn't find the fire in him to snap back at this infuriating Scot, and settled for staring in silence instead. Disappointed, the lord shoved him away. "Yer such a woman," he hissed in disgust.

Arthur bit back an angry swear and quietly crawled forward to pick up the remaining mess, dismissing himself from the room formally even though Alistair was ignoring him.

He was – as he was expected to be – just outside of the man's shadow when the Perthshire nobles were heralded by the gatekeeper. They stood together in the courtyard, Alistair wearing some of his finer Scottish noblewear and Arthur left to look duller in comparison in his usual vest and trousers. Arthur couldn't even find the good cheer within him to laugh at the Scottish kilt.

As they had the first time they visited, the duo came without an escort and on twin horses. The noblewoman had pulled her long blonde hair into fair, curling pigtails, her face pale and cheeks peppered with rouge – contrasting with the jade of her eyes.

Her father rode at her side, a greying, bearded man with quite the belly. His noble wear was visibly older, faded and worn and Arthur wondered why he hadn't bothered to dress nicer.

His thoughts were frozen when that man's eyes fell upon him, and the look the Lord of Perthshire sent the blonde attendant was one that promised pain. Arthur refused to be bullied, narrowing his eyes and sending a nasty glare of his own right back.

If Alistair noticed this exchange, he pretended not to. Instead he smiled as he approached the pair, offering his hand to the lady to help her dismount – like a proper gentleman and not an arrogant bastard, Arthur noticed. That wasn't Alistair at all.

"Lass," the Scot purred once the girl was on solid ground. He held her hand as he swept into a low bow, then brought her knuckles to his lips with a charming smile. "It's a pleasure."

The girl seemed to redden at the gentlemanly behaviour and the pleasant regulation of that Scottish brogue.

"L-likewise."

Arthur wanted to be sick, and he would've made a face were he not being glared at by the girl's father still.

Alistair straightened out, then extended his hand to the Lord on horseback, shaking the man's arm firmly.

"Laird Duff." He stepped back as the older man dismounted his horse. "Nice t'see ye again."

"As always, Alistair."

Arthur didn't like the way Alistair referred to the man as a 'lord' but the man couldn't be arsed to do the same. This time he let his disapproval show.

They were brought inside for an extravagant lunch – one Arthur had watched the cooks fret over for hours, Bella screaming orders the entire time at the top of her lungs, a blur of colour as she zipped about the kitchen. While the nobility sat around the table, Arthur was ordered to stand nearby and he reluctantly did so. Alistair had given up his seat at the head of the table to the elder lord and sat instead beside the lady.

Arthur made himself scarce, standing beside a decorative bust of one of Alistair's late parents, wondering if the former Graham matriarch would be proud of her son's false behaviour. He had nothing else to do but watch the exchange between Scottish nobility and loathe every minute of it.

Alistair had his charm on full, and if he'd carried himself that way all the time, people wouldn't hesitate to call him a pleasant human being and not an arrogant asshat. He smiled at the lady frequently, the look in his eyes kind as he spoke to her. Every now and again, he would make a flattering comment and kiss her hand and the girl would titter.

He minded his manners and spoke at a decent volume – he did not swear or curse or threaten to flog the poor servant that tripped past the door and caused a commotion. Arthur moved to help the boy up, only to be called back before he could exit the room as well.

"Lad, I donnae remember giving ye permission to leave." Arthur froze, clenched his fists and spun on his heel. Alistair focused that charming smile on him now, looking past the woman he wooed with his chin on the palm of his hand. Gritting his teeth, the boy ducked into a quick bow.

"My apologies, _Laird Alistair,_" he ground out in that horrific mocking of a Scottish accent. He missed the way the man's smile widened at the unintentional barb, focused on returning to the late Mrs. Graham's side and muttering angry things to her about her son.

Truthfully, he was no stranger to this type of situation. About a year back, he'd been in the exact same position. His father wanted him to start thinking on taking a wife, and he was introduced to a French girl and told to make a good impression. The honeyed words he'd spoken to her were nothing more than a polished act, learned from being raised as royalty.

The girl was sweet and pretty and maybe Arthur could have come to love her, but at the time of their meeting he was more interested in returning to the courtyard to practice his fencing. He'd said kind things and become a person far more charming than he was normally, knowing he carried his family's reputation with every word he spoke.

But even knowing this did not make watching Alistair lie through his teeth any easier. Were he openly royal, he would have no qualms about marching up to the scene and telling the good lady that her suitor was a rude, arrogant, twisted man with a dark sense of humour and a foul mouth. And maybe, were he not still bitter about the event in its entirety, he may have ignored the beatings and punishments and done so anyways.

With the way Alistair would flick him a sly look from the corner of his eye when his lady was not watching, Arthur was ready to believe the man _wanted_ him to interrupt. He felt like he was being goaded.

Which gave him all the more reason _not_ to react to those chaste kisses or kind words, that handsome smile and the laughter in those emerald eyes.

It also helped that Alistair was not the only one giving him sidelong glances from the table. Every now and again his skin prickled with unease and he caught the elder lord glaring at him, often from over his goblet when he drank Alistair's finest french wines with avarice.

The look Lord Duff gave him did not bode well, but Arthur was still too bitter to care as much as he should.

Which was undoubtedly a mistake.

After lunch, the lady Ariel asked to speak with Alistair alone,

"A tour o' the grounds?" she suggested with the batting of her lashes. Alistair smiled warmly at the shameless flirt.

"How could I say no tae you, bonnie lass?"

The happy couple dismissed themselves and a swarm of servants surged in when their Lord had left. Arthur slipped into a working mindset, directing the whirlwind of people while dishes were cleared, the table was swept and the entire room straightened, made to look as if no one had touched it that day at all.

Arthur spent some time helping in the kitchen with dishes, angrily ranting to Bella as he slammed down plates and scrubbed harshly at foodscum, his white sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"I tell you, it was absolutely _revolting_," he grumbled.

"'e does give the impression of an accomplished thespian, no?" Bella's eyes twinkled with laughter as she dried the dishes that were practically thrown at her.

"At least you didn't have to _watch_ it. To hear him talk that way to her, sounding like some snobbish fop." Arthur changed the pitch of his voice in a mockery of those he imitated, "_Your estate is impressive, m'laird, 'n you have quite the collection o' art!"_

Bella giggled as the lad lowered his voice and spoke through his worst impression of a Scottish brogue.

"_Aye, lass, boot they peel in coom-paris-oon tae ye. _What rubbish."

Bella began to hum while she worked out of habit and Arthur just kept on ranting. He ignored the way Bella's laughter turned knowing after the third exasperated recollection of what he'd witnessed.

* * *

When the dishes were done and the staff collectively returned to their regular duties, Arthur let himself back into the dining room to make sure nothing was out of order – as he was sure Alistair would be checking later, just in spite of him.

He straightened landscape portraits dusted the miscellaneous trophies and busts, muttering to himself all the while about Alistair's total farce. To say he was unprepared to hear a Scottish voice cut him off would be an understatement. He practically leaped out of his skin and immediately after struggled not to send Mrs. Graham tumbling to the floor.

"Yer a hard workin' lad, 'aint ye?"

When the late matriarch was not at risk of shattering, Arthur let out a long breath and turned. Lord Duff still sat at the table, and after giving it some thought the boy decided he never did see the man get up and leave in the first place. The bottle of wine that had once been full was empty, and the man swished around the remnants of the alcohol in his golden goblet.

"Only when I have to be," Arthur responded simply. He didn't bother with any bows or dips of his head in respect – he could tell by the tone of that voice that respect would have no place in this confrontation.

The heavy lord grunted, finishing his goblet all at once. When he spoke, traces of the wine still soaked his lips, and the spittle at the corners of his mouth was dotted red. Arthur grimaced at the unpleasant sight.

"Remember what I promised ye?"

The youth felt a chill down his spine, but he kept calm as he answered:

"Something to the like of removing my tongue, yes?"

"Aye..." The man pulled a dagger from his belt and stabbed it into the wood. He turned his head and stared at Arthur expectantly. "Well, lad? Are ye gonna do it or do I have tae?"

Arthur laughed and the sound of it was mirthless.

"Ah, so you're the literal type, then?"

"I'm th' type tae keep my promises, boy."

It was then that the lad began to feel a small amount of panic flutter in his chest. Alistair's threats were different – he knew when the man was being serious and when the man was just being an ass. This lord, however, was a stranger. Arthur knew not how to interpret the man's tone, or the hunger in his eyes, or what kind of effect that much wine would have on him.

"My apologies, sir, but I don't think Alistair would be fond of having his attendant maimed," Arthur grasped for leverage, remaining deathly still as the man rose, carrying his goblet with him. Arthur did not flee because the lord did not approach him, but instead turned to the door.

The Englishman swallowed heavily when the man closed the double doors firmly and jammed a decorative spear through the handles. Meanwhile Arthur eyed the door to the kitchen, partially obscured by a navy curtain.

The lord returned to his chair, but did not sit down. Instead he plucked his dagger from the table and tossed his goblet aside, then finally turned to where the Brit stood by the wall. Every step he took boxed the young man in more and more.

"If th' guid _Laird_ Alistair wishes it, Ah will happily provide him wi' another." The man narrowed his eyes as he corrected the boy's informal slip of the tongue. Right, servants weren't supposed to address their masters by their first names – especially without an honorific or around other nobles.

Well, Arthur never did claim to be the perfect servant.

"I'd like to think I've a special place in his heart," his sardonic optimism went ignored and the man stepped closer, stopping just barely out of arm's reach.

"Then it's a pity fer him that ye hae shamed his house as ye hae."

Arthur raised a thick eyebrow, but was given little more time to react before the big lord lurched forward, his fat fingers curling into the front of his vest and he was pulled harshly towards the table. The man's strength was surprising and he easily launched the British boy into the heavy wooden centrepiece. He stumbled clumsily over a chair and smacked his head off the edge as he fell.

The resulting haze of dizziness incapacitated him for a moment, and Arthur could barely discern which way was up as he was grabbed by the throat and lifted again, bent backwards over the table.

His struggles were clumsy and disoriented but no less motivated, the man's meaty hand a heavy pressure on his throat, closing his windpipe.

"Ah wonder," the man slurred, and Arthur's vision was beginning to clear. He stilled when he felt the cold metal of the man's dagger press into his jaw. "Will ye scream?"

"When you cut off my tongue?" Arthur wheezed, managing to summon at last the fire he was known for. If he was going to be killed, he might as well go down swinging. "I imagine I might cry."

He was smacked further into his daze with one precise strike to his temple.

"Yer awfully bold fer a slae, bairn."

"There's those words again," Arthur laughed deliriously, "and I still haven't the foggiest notion of their meaning!"

Part of him whispered that this dialogue was similar to the time when he first met Alistair, though the fire-haired Scot was far less drunk and a different kind of crazy.

The man grabbed a fistful of the young attendant's hair, lifting his head off the table before smashing it down, increasing the rate at which Arthur's world spun. He didn't even realize the man had let go of his neck until he felt those thick fingers shove into his mouth. His tongue was pinched mercilessly and pulled a way out from his lips.

Arthur grunted loudly in protest, but the man dug his fingernails into the soft muscle and prevented him from withdrawing. He felt his heart kick into a frenzy and he scrambled for a purchase on the floor.

He wheezed as the man lifted his knee and pressed it down into Arthur's chest, the weight effectively pinning him to the table as he brought the edge of the dagger to his tongue.

The Brit stopped dead and fell silent.

"Tha's moor like it," the man purred, and Arthur felt pressure on the side of his tongue.

He stared up at this lord's ugly mug and felt some of his resolve strengthen within him. It would hurt like nothing he'd felt before, but he would not give this man the satisfaction of hearing him scream. He dug his nails into the wood of the table as he felt the muscle tear with the slide of that dagger.

But he did not cry out, and he stubbornly banished the tears that wanted to surface.

He glared fiercely at the man, fearless and proud. It was that look that stopped the large lord, having cut perhaps a centimetre into the boy's muscle without getting so much as a whine. Arthur was conflicted when the man lifted his weapon away and tapped at his chin thoughtfully with the point of that bloody dagger.

"Ye got balls, boy," he said, "but Ah intend tae hear ye cry."

He leaned back and studied the youth. Arthur began to twist and squirm again, able to pull his tongue back into his mouth and properly taste the copper of his blood. Those man's large hands slammed down into his shoulders to stop his struggles.

"Yer a pretty thing, now tha' Ah look atchye," the man drawled, his slurring words evidence of his inebriation. _That_ made Arthur's gut clench in terror. "I kin think o' a way tae make ye scream."

The dread clawed at his heart and he swore when the man dropped his knee and flipped him over. Arthur felt the man's large hand clamp down over the back of his neck and squeeze and push and bruise. He swore again, trying to lift his head and simultaneously ignore the metallic clinking of a belt buckle. The man was panting behind him, but his grip was no less forceful as he worked to free himself with only one hand and a skewed sense of balance. Arthur didn't have much time.

Without really thinking any of his actions through, Arthur swiped forward desperately with a hand, his fingers curling around the cold, thin neck of the wine bottle sitting in the centre of the table. He ignored the painful pull of his muscles as he swung the thing 'round hard, his shoulder blades pressing together uncomfortably. But his pain was rewarded when he heard the loud _thunk_ and felt the vibrations through his hand.

Arthur pushed himself upright and spun as the man stumbled back – struggling to find his balance with his hand on his head. The boy never gave him the chance. He stepped forward and punched the Scot solidly across the jaw. It was enough to knock the man flat on his back, and acting only on instinct the British youth was quick to pounce, lifting that heavy bottle high above his head with the wild thought of bashing in the man's skull.

But then everything stopped dead when a woman's voice cut through the room, coming not from the sealed front doors but from the servant's passageway at the back. Arthur turned a terrified face to the noble pair, knowing the incriminating picture he painted: perched over this lord and ready to beat in his face.

"_Father?!"_

* * *

**Oh snap!**

**I like updating Saturdays before work, so here you go (: I haven't quite decided if I'll update tomorrow as well or not. Depends on how today goes.**

**So my hand is more or less on the mend. Granted, I am typing with one giant conjoined-with-gauze finger, but it's better than not being able to use my right hand at all. It was a little bump in the road, but I'm back to pounding out chapters and maintaining my lead! Hoo-rah!**

**I decided I'll probably do an appendix soonish, to correct some of the things I'm doing to history in the name of creative freedom, and to elaborate on some other things, as well as provide some fun facts. If you're into that kinda shit, anticipate! If not, disregard everything I'm saying and carry on with your day.**

**Anyways, I'd just like to take a moment to remind you that yes, this is indeed a ScotEng story, it is romance and it is rated T.  
(Take that warning as you will :D)**

**Please review - I promise you they are the best medicine for my burns! And I'm sorry for not answering a lot of the reviews for last chapter, but uh, my hand hurt a lot ):**

**Thanks so much for reading this far. I will see you all Wednesday, if not sooner.**

**Until next time,**

**Ami.**


	10. Chapter 10

The room was frozen in time.

Arthur still held the bottle above his head, though his focus was on the well-dressed pair across from him. The large lord beneath him was groaning, his head rolling clumsily from side to side as he struggled to make sense through pain and intoxication. The lady Ariel covered her mouth with both hands, the look in her eyes absolutely terrified. Alistair was at her side, though his expression was thoughtful.

It was him who set the world back into motion. He strode forward quickly, and Arthur tasted blood when he swallowed hard, just in time for the man to grab him by the hair and pull him off of Duff. He cried out, a stream of blood escaping from his mouth as he was dragged across the room. Alistair threw him to the ground and Arthur kicked into a panic as something inside him _snapped_.

He scrambled away on all fours, reaching up only when he came to the door, shaking desperately at the wood and not really registering that they were still locked shut with that ornate spear.

He heard footsteps behind him and he whirled, momentarily forgetting that the lord Duff was still in a daze on the floor on the other side of the room with his daughter fretting at his side – and not approaching him to finish the job he'd started. It took him a while to recognize the face of Alistair because of it. The man stood above him while Arthur pressed back into the doors and tried to curl in on himself.

"Lad," the Scot growled and Arthur flinched, eyes wide and looking to the lord like a trapped animal, wild and afraid and ready to bolt. The expression forced Alistair to set aside any anger and he crouched down in front of the young man slowly. Arthur still clung desperately to the wine bottle, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. "Lad," Alistair repeated, his voice softer now, "let me have that."

Gently, he eased the bottle out of the youth's hands and rolled it away from them. Arthur watched it go, looking worried until Alistair lifted a hand to turn the boy's face back – but the violent flinch stopped them both.

They were frozen for a while, and the look in Alistair's eyes became cold and calculating. As Arthur watched the change, he found his voice.

"I-I didn't-" he stammered, "I wasn't going to-"

But the panic which thickened his tongue also sent dribbles of blood flowing over his lips. He flinched again at the sensation and lifted his wrists to wipe desperately at the warm fluid, as if trying to clean himself up.

"_Oi."_ Alistair snatched the boy's wrists and held them away from his face, ignoring the way Arthur pressed harder back into the doors.

"I'm sorry!" Arthur babbled, "I didn't know what I should have done and I thought-"

"Hush, boy."

Arthur snapped his jaw shut immediately, eyebrows arching upwards in confusion.

"No, no, open your mouth. Why are ye bleedin' so much?"

Alistair tentatively released one of the blonde's wrists, instead going to ease the youth's mouth open with a gentle pressure on his chin. It took a moment of coaxing, but Arthur eventually opened his mouth and turned to show the neat slit in the side of his tongue – a cut that bled profusely and mixed with saliva to produce the watery red liquid that leaked from the corner of the Brit's mouth.

"What happened?" Arthur seemed to pale at the demand, so Alistair repeated himself, softer.

"He promised he was going to cut it off..." the boy whispered, eyes going wild at the memory.

"Your tongue?"

"Yeah, and then-"

He stopped abruptly and clamped his mouth shut, shaking his head quickly. Alistair watched as his gaze focused behind him, and he too turned to see what the boy was staring at.

Lord Duff was sitting upright, his daughter's hands flitting over his face and she cradled his head, whispering softly to the man as he recovered. He was lightly pressing a bloody dagger into the ground under his right hand, but that's not what Alistair felt his eyes zero in on.

The man's belt was left undone, his trousers hanging awkwardly down one hip and freeing a roll of bare, hairy flesh.

Alistair understood, and he couldn't remember the last time he was overcome with such a cold rage.

He turned back to the blonde attendant, whose eyes searched his for any sign that he was going to be punished for striking a lord because realistically, no matter the situation, he should have been. But Alistair had no plans to punish the boy, and tried to show as much in his expression as he cupped the youth's face in his hands.

"Calm yerself, lad," he ordered, though he did so kindly. "Ye still live."

"B-but-"

"Hush. Stay quiet now."

With that, the Scot rose and turned, calm and composed as he approached the Perthshire pair.

"Is he alright?" he asked. The girl flicked her stare up to the red-head, looking glad for his concern.

"I think he's fine, but he's still quite drunk."

"O'course, o'course," Alistair bobbed his head. "Can he walk?"

"I could get him to his feet, aye."

"Then it be fer the best that ye take yer father 'n leave, lass."

The girl looked surprised now, her brows knitting together.

"E-excuse me?" She looked up to Alistair, confused, and when he did not speak she continued, sounding offended. "That _whelp_ was ready to kill my father 'n you send _us_ out? I should have you give me the lad's head for this!"

Alistair continued to stare thoughtfully, but she misinterpreted the look for stubborn silence.

"What o' our union? You were going to ask for my hand, aye? D'ye think I'll give it while that brat still lives?"

At this, Alistair laughed. It was a harsh, cruel sound and the lady withdrew from it like she'd been struck.

"Lass, ye are a might tae borin' fer my tastes, a right stick 'n the mud. Yer all too happy bein' pushed this way 'n that, be it by me or yer slob of a Da." Alistair folded his arms across his chest, standing above the two with an air of authority. He tilted his head to one side, narrowed his eyes and smirked knowingly. "Do ye even want tae wed, lass?"

The girl's eyes hit the floor as if they'd been dropped.

"That's what I thought. Shame ye don't have the spine tae stand up 'n tell yer Da this."

The young woman stiffened, but she did not argue. She focused instead on her father, quietly ushering the man to his feet who muttered incomprehensible nonsense under his breath. The man seemed to sober up a little as he found his feet beneath him.

"We should leave," he hissed to his daughter, who he leaned heavily on for support.

"We've already been dismissed, Da," she whispered.

Alistair turned and briskly walked back to the front door, ignoring how Arthur shuffled away without actually picking himself up off the floor. He removed the make-shift barricade and opened both doors, stepping aside to gesture for the pair to see themselves out. Not a word between the nobles was exchanged, the atmosphere thick with tension.

As the Perthshire duo took their leave, Alistair looked over to where Arthur sat cross-legged against the wall, his head bowed and his fingers tangled in his hair.

"Ye gon' be alright, lad?"

Arthur let out a long, shaky breath and nodded, but he did not raise his head.

Unsure of what else to say, the lord grunted. He left the youth to sort himself out, thinking he'd take the time to go make sure the nobles didn't cause any more trouble on their way out.

* * *

When he stepped into the courtyard a few minutes later, the pair stood by the gates, talking animatedly despite using hushed voices. When Alistair approached, they stopped quite suddenly and turned to face him. Lady Ariel spoke.

"I would like t' apologize for any trouble we may have caused," she said, curtseying. "But...in the interest o' our political relations..." the girl trailed off, searching Alistair's face with a hopeful expression.

"I will not wed ye, Lady Ariel."

The girl maintained her hope, and she was smart to do so. Alistair was not quite finished.

"But I see no harm in a political alliance."

Ariel smiled with relief, and the red-headed lord found the good graces to smile back. In hindsight, Alistair would admit that the girl would have made a good wife – that she truly meant well. The same could not be said for her father, however, as the man shamed himself one last time before leaving.

It happened just after Alistair noticed Arthur step in place beside him. He still looked a little pale, but he'd cleaned up his face and had come to see this brute out. Lord Duff noticed too, and in his drunken state he forgot what little progress his daughter had made for their lands thus far. Steven brought the two their horses and Lord Duff reached first for his sword that hung in the scabbard strapped to his steed.

With an angry warcry, he pulled out the weapon and spun. He fixed his eyes on the British attendant and charged. Alistair would have moved to defend the boy, but found as the events unfolded that he had no need to. When he reached for his sword, he was surprised to see Arthur's hand already clasped around it. The boy stepped forward, unsheathing his lord's weapon and lifting it to parry.

There was a terrific clang as the blades met, then an unpleasant hacking sound as the boy whirled around and rammed the hilt of his sword into the man's chest.

Alistair, who had been startled at first, watched the man fall and laughed.

"Get ye gone, ye drunken fool!" He waved the man away, a warning glint in his eyes despite the smile. "B'fore ye make a mistake ye can't recover from."

Lady Ariel ushered the man onto his horse and sent the beast trotting down the hill. She lingered only long enough to spin, curtsey and repeat another apology, then she too mounted her horse and took off after her father.

Arthur stood in front of Alistair and watched them go, shaking with adrenaline, clinging tightly to his stolen weapon. The Scot watched the youth pant for a few silent seconds before closing the distance between them and putting a hand on his shoulder. Arthur jumped and whipped his head around in an instant, jade eyes wide as they stared up at him.

"Sometimes, lad," Alistair said with a smile on his face "I wonder if you're truly worth all the trouble ye cause."

* * *

Arthur, of course, was ordered to clean up the mess he'd made of the dining room. He would've been more bitter about the command were it not for the fact that he really didn't have much to clean. "The mess" consisted mostly of little specks of blood – his, naturally – that needed to be removed before they stained. While he worked, Alistair locked himself in his study with the claim of having work to do and requested that he not be disturbed. Arthur was more than happy to oblige, and for the first time in days he had the night to himself.

Because he was often running after Alistair's whims, most of the time he grabbed dinner on the run, or ate quickly between tasks. Sometimes he found enough time in his day to sit down with Cait or Alfred, but most of the time he ate alone.

So when little Alfred heard that Arthur had a night off for the first time since before Alistair's injury, he spread the word and the servants of Laird Alistair's estate pulled out all the stops to get together for a proper dinner. With their chores and duties done for the day, they gathered around the large wooden table that had been provided for staff dinners in their wing,

Bella and her fellow cooks prepared the food for the night, using what modest provisions the staff were left with and managing to create something worth gathering for. There were slices of left over pork, roast beef and chicken, a medley of raw vegetables and fresh loaves with dinner and more than enough of each to go around.

The wing was filled with the chatter of happy voices and the peal of laughter that evening, and when the food was finished and the dishes piled up on the counter, the table was pushed to the side of the room and a rag-tag band assembled.

There was music and merriment and dancing and Arthur truly could not remember a time where he'd enjoyed himself so much. Never before had he kicked off his shoes to twirl an orange-haired serving girl around to the beat of a broken drum and the tune of a slightly off-key flute. Then, just as he was beginning to adapt to the way Cait moved, there was a chorus of cheers and the girls found a new partner. Once he'd gotten over his initial shock, he happily returned to dancing – this time with the doe-eyed Michelle, who laughed and sang and untied her hair from those pigtails.

English royalty would've paled to see such frivolous merriment. They would've turned up their nose at the girls hiking up their dresses, at the dancers without shoes, at the sheer cluster of people spinning and laughing and bumping elbows. Once upon a time, maybe Arthur would have too, if only because that was how he was raised.

But it had been a long time since he'd been English royalty, which is why it seemed so natural to laugh along with these people he'd come to love. He tossed Michelle to Steven and caught Bella before she tripped into him, while Alfred darted and spun between the dancers to a tune all his own. At that moment in time, Arthur wasn't a prisoner, he was a dear friend and surrogate brother in a place he'd come to call his home. He didn't even complain when the odd sound of the Scottish bagpipes joined into the tune. He was laughing and spinning and dancing in a way he never had before, dissolving the trauma and stress of the day into pure bliss.

He was glad to be there.

Eventually, when the dancers had begun to tire and the music fizzled out as musicians and party-goers alike turned in for the night, Arthur found himself sitting on a mead barrel, surrounded by those he'd grown closest to.

Little Alfred was leaning against the barrel, sitting on the floor and doing his very best to stay awake and listen to the grown-ups talk. Steven perched on a crate with Michelle, while Cait had perched herself on the iron-cast barrel beside Arthur. Bella sat cross-legged on the floor, happy enough wherever she was.

They were reminiscing together, sharing stories and memories and laughing along with each other while they did.

"I remember one time," Steven was saying as he leaned forward on the crate, "I took Alistair's stallion out t'graze with ole Margie, 'n the beast got spooked by a farmer's huntin' mutt, righ? He took off at a gallop, 'e did! He crossed into Aberdeen an' I was chasin' 'im half the day before he calmed. Good ole Margie's a right sturdy mare, but she 'aint conditioned to keep up with a warhorse."

"How did Alistair react?" asked Arthur.

Steven chuckled and grinned.

""e didn't, mate. I took good care t'make sure he ne'er found out, 'n if _you _haven't heard 'bout it, I'm bettin' he _still_ doesn't know how close I came to losin' the beast."

There was a unanimous titter, then Bella spoke from the floor.

"I remember once – 'n this was before you were here, Arthur – I accidentally over-peppered the Laird's stew. 'is steward at the time lit up like a tomato, an' Alistair found it so funny 'e didn't scold me for messing up – rather praised me for 'putting some colour in his day'"

Arthur felt himself smiling – glad he wasn't the only one to mess up his work from time to time.

"Oh!" Michelle chirped "And there was the time Caitlin got stuck on the roof!"

"The roof, sheila?" echoed Steven, raising an eyebrow. Cait flushed.

"There was a baby bird up there, and he wasn't flying away – even after days. I thought maybe he was hurt!"

"Nope!" sang Michelle, "it was fine, and flew away when she tried to fetch it. Then she couldn't figure out how to get down!"

"It was very high!" The Irish girl protested, smoothing out her skirts, embarrassed.

"It was lil' Al who heard her calling for help. He promised he'd go get help."

All eyes rested momentarily on the youngest of their group, who had nodded off against the barrel. The story continued regardless.

"And who did he go to get?"

"Who else do you think?" laughed Bella.

"Alistair, of course!" Michelle covered her devious smile with a hand. "How _red_ she was when he climbed up there after her."

"I-it was not my proudest moment."

"That's alright, I fell in the well."

Arthur didn't realize he'd spoken until suddenly he was the centre of attention. There was a beat of silence, then Steven roared with laughter. He was shushed when his noise stirred Al, only to softly ask:

"How didja manage that, mate?"

Arthur bit his cheek and huffed, wishing he'd not said anything. But if they was trading embarrassing mistakes, he had quite a few he could add to the pot.

"I-I was still new," he began, "and Alistair ordered me to fetch water for the maids to heat for his bath. I didn't realize the bucket came all the way up and reached in to grab it. Well, I reached a little too far and..." He nodded his head slowly and Cait covered her mouth with a gasp.

"How did you not break anythin'?"

"Dumb luck, I suppose. I caught the rope partway down and slowed my fall a little until I burned my palm. Thankfully it had rained the night before, so the water was pretty high."

"How'd you get out?" Michelle asked, brown eyes wide. Arthur sighed slowly and drew a hand through his hair.

"How do you think?" he huffed. The ladies seem to draw in a scandalous gasp in perfect unison.

"No!" Bella grinned. "Alistair?"

"He came looking for me, assuming that I was trying to run away again, and heard me yelling from in the well."

There was a ripple of laughter as the scene was collectively pictured – and by Arthur, recalled.

"I remember he just stood up there and _mocked_ me for a good long while. '_What's that, boy? Is th' Lil' Brit stook in th' well?'_ and _'if ah toss in a copper 'n make a wish, will ye grant it, O enchanted well?' _I caught a cold down there," Arthur added miserably. He decided not to share that Alistair did indeed pelt the boy with a couple coins, laughing.

"I'd laugh at you too," Steven said with a grin. Michelle gave him a playful shove, but by the look on her face it was obvious she felt the same.

"How did he do it?" Cait asked.

"What?"

"Get you out."

"Oh. I still had the rope down there with me – I couldn't climb it on my own because I would have unwound it all. Alistair used it to pull me up."

"After how long, though?" Steven snickered.

"I fell in just before dinner," the Brit said plainly, "he came looking for me just after sunset."

The laughter kicked up again, and this time Arthur joined in – even if it was at his own expense.

* * *

After a few more stories and Michelle nearly dozing off on Steven's shoulder, the group agreed to call it a night. Cait gathered up Alfred in her arms and carried the boy off to bed after pecking both Steven and Arthur on the cheek and giving the ladies a quick hug goodnight. Steven got up too, to help get the semi-conscious Michelle back to her bunk while Bella walked with Arthur through the castle, breaking off at some point to return to her quarters – a small room relatively close to the kitchen. Arthur walked the last stretch alone in the dark, feeling not scared but tranquil. He even paused at the window to stare outside, taking in the way the waning moon painted the green grass silver in the dark and watching as the wind blew shadows through the fields down the hill.

He propped his elbows on the windowsill and sighed, reflecting on the night with a warm smile, watching as a wisp of a cloud drifted past the moon.

His thoughts were interrupted by the familiar scent of smoke, and Arthur furrowed his brows. He turned away from the window and continued down the hall, having a good guess where that smell was coming from. Sure enough, as he turned into the hall that housed Alistair's study, he could see the door was open a crack, letting the flicker of firelight leak out into the dark.

He approached the door quietly, and before pushing it open he did as he had learned to do months ago – he knocked.

After receiving an affirmative grunt, Arthur let himself in.

"You're still awake?" he asked, watching as the red-haired lord turned away from where he stared out the window, puffing on that pipe of his, to study the blonde.

"Aye, and I see you're the same."

Alistair's accent was at one of its more pleasant of inflections. The brogue wasn't completely banished – but soft enough that the Brit could understand the man without having to mentally translate.

"Some of the staff gathered for a bit of a get-together," Arthur explained, shutting the door behind him, though he wondered if anyone other than himself and Alistair slept close enough to the study to be disturbed by their voices. "It was a pleasant change of pace, after today."

The man seemed to stiffen until he took a long breath in from his pipe. When he blew out, he did so out of the corner of his mouth – not blowing smoke right at Arthur as he often did. The Brit was glad for the little display of proper manners, as they were quite rare.

"I can imagine," the lord muttered, more to himself. He let the attendant stand awkwardly at the door while he thought, drumming his fingers on his desk. "Do you drink, lad?"

Arthur's answer was prompt.

"I have in the past, yes. I couldn't tell you exactly when, though. It's been quite a while."

The man grunted again, then leaned towards the drawers on the right side of his desk. He produced not one, but two ornate crystal glasses and a bottle of wine.

"I don't recall saying I _wanted_ to drink," Arthur deadpanned. He was ignored, and the two glasses were poured full. Alistair gestured for the youth to take a glass, then grabbed the stem of his own.

No matter how classy the wine itself may have been, Alistair was still Alistair. He didn't sip at his wine like a gentleman – he gulped it. He swallowed a mouthful and then raised a provocative eyebrow.

"I can understand if ye can't hold your liquor, _boy._"

And then he grinned at the blonde, leaning forward and waiting smugly for the barb to do its job. It took a few seconds – and during that time Arthur looked visibly conflicted – but eventually the young man let loose a huff of resignation and advanced. He took the second glass, pointedly ignoring the lord's teasing smirk, and retreated to sit in his usual chair by the fire.

Not long after, Alistair rose as well. He grabbed the neck of the near-full bottle and his half-empty glass. He stepped around his desk and approached the fire – but sat quite contently on the rug. Arthur gave him an odd look.

"I didn't fancy you the type to be so..." Arthur searched for the right word. "...earthy."

"But ye _do_ fancy me, aye?"

Arthur sputtered into the sip of wine he was taking, inhaling the alcohol and stubbornly refusing to choke. He pounded his fist against his chest until he felt confident enough to breathe without coughing. Alistair's expression was still teasing and Arthur scowled.

"Don't twist my words," he grumbled, adding a hushed "twit" for good measure.

But Alistair shrugged off the insult and leaned back on his hand. He swirled his wine in his glass before downing about a third of it.

"Isn't wine supposed to be savoured?"

"I savour the sensation it brings; isn't that enough?

Arthur scoffed to avoid supplying a proper answer and stared hard into his glass. He made a face, then resigned to try doing things differently. Mindful to hold his breath as he drank, the youth downed half his glass in one go, only to regret it afterwards when the cut on the side of his tongue burned in protest. In his shock, he breathed in a drag of the wine stuck in his throat and choked.

"That's a good lad," Alistair purred, and the discomfort Arthur felt at his grin and his tone drove him to finish his glass entirely – pain be damned. "...And now you're turning it into a competition."

"What? No. Stop making things up."

Alistair was already filling the younger's glass and simultaneously emptying his own with a quick swig. The blonde could only imagine how much practice it took to be able to do both those things at once without spilling a drop.

Arthur couldn't help but to feel like he was under heavy scrutiny the entire time, even though more often than not Alistair's gaze was fixed only on the dimming fire. He knew he _shouldn't_ have liked how he cared less and less about the heavy atmosphere the more he drank. Before long he was trying to match his lord drink for drink, and with each glass he became more confident that he could out drink the Scot.

His last reserve of untainted logic protested quietly to the stupid goal and pointed out that Alistair probably knew what Arthur was trying to do – hence why the the youth's glass was perpetually being topped up and why the lord was never without that sly smile. It was halfway into his third glass that the effects actually hit him with all the force of stampeding cattle. That logic fell silent, though its final appearance was in the quiet, understanding "Oh," that Arthur muttered into his glass.

But logic be damned, because Arthur felt pleasantly warm and uncharacteristically giddy. He didn't care that he was swaying subtly in his chair and sipped contently at his drink. He was so numb he couldn't even feel his tongue anymore – let alone the sting he used to feel whenever he took a sip.

Alistair chuckled from the floor.

"Should I be surprised?" he asked.

"At...at what?"

_When did words get so hard?!_

"You're a lightweight, lad."

Arthur flushed and knitted his brows together in offence.

"I am not a lightweight! I'm just tired, s'all..."

Alistair finished his glass and poured himself another one, never without that smirk. It drove Arthur crazy to see him with that expression and now he had no problems admitting it.

"Stop that," he scolded, and the lord responded only by raising an eyebrow. "Don't you give me that look...That '_I know something you don't know_' look. I hate it and you do it a lot."

"That's probably just a sign of your failing intelligence, boy."

The youth sputtered indignantly and kicked out a leg.

"S'not! I...I know things."

The Scot responded by laughing, content enough to watch the youth's rapid spiral down into proper intoxication.

For a while, so was Arthur.

He drank quite happily with a small smile on his face. Alistair no longer filled his glass because the boy insisted on doing it himself. He would lift the bottle from the floor and focus hard on not spilling any into his lap. The lord usually had the good sense to take the bottle from him when he was finished, generally to top up his own glass or just to make sure the blonde didn't drop it.

After a long bout of silence, Arthur stood, swaying, and kicked his chair back with his heel. He studied his feet for a few fleeting moments, the plopped down on the floor with a great sigh. When Alistair regarded him calculatedly from the corner of his eye and Arthur caught his stare, the blonde shrugged and said:

"S'comfier down here."

It was a while before either man spoke, but when the conversation started again Arthur couldn't remember what inhibition even _meant _anymore.

"Why dinn't you wed the bitch?" the boy slurred, squinting at Alistair.

"Not my type," was the simple response, accompanied by an indifferent shrug. "I prefer the people I keep in my company to have a little more personality."

"But it was a...a diplomatic union...right? Doesn't not being married kinda ruin that?"

"Not exactly. We can be on good terms and not be married."

Arthur gave a little laugh that might have been bitter and spoke into his glass.

"S'not how it is in England."

Alistair only grunted in agreement, then changed the subject.

"You're less well-spoken like this," the elder observed.

"Who isn't?" shot back Arthur, only to reconsider, "'sides you, 'course. You're bein' awfully easy to understand for a drunk bastard." Again, Alistair only chuckled. Without something to answer to, Arthur was left to run his mouth. "You do get real hard to understand pretty often, y'know," he rubbed absently at his eye with the back of his wrist. "'specially when you get angry or start yelling. I could write a book on how to translate angry Scot into proper English. I'd make a fortune – at least 'round here."

Arthur paused, seemed to think on his words, then started again.

"Why dinn't you beat me?"

It was Alistair's turn to look confused.

"I rather think I did," he said slowly, "you may not still have the bruises, but that doesn't mean they weren't ever there."

"No, no, don't be dumb."

Alistair frowned.

"I mean, _today_. I was ready to mess that guy's face up and he's a lord and I'm a servant here and I'm pretty sure there's probably some rules against that...somewhere. But you dinn't punish me."

"Nae, lad, I did not."

"Oh! That reminds me!" Arthur suddenly straightened out. "What the _devil_ is a sleigh-barn?"

"...What?"

"A sleigh-barn. You called me it after you stabbed Alan, and then again...another time...and a time after that too, and then today, in the dining hall, with that fat Duff fellow. After he asked if I'd scream when he cut off my tongue and I told him that I honestly might cry and then he just looked at me and told me I was bold for a sleigh-barn."

Despite appearing more or less composed, Alistair was not as swift as he was when sober – he had been steadily chipping away at a bottle of Scotch since dinner – and it took him a moment to work out just what the babbling boy was on about.

"Ah!" he snapped his fingers as the thought came to him and pointed. "A slae-bairn."

"That's what I said. Sleigh-barn."

Alistair chuckled and took a sip of the wine. He set the glass behind him and shifted his weight. When he spoke, he spoke slowly – not because he didn't think the boy would understand, but because speaking slowly was the best way to make sure _he_ didn't start slurring his words too.

"It means 'slave child.'"

Arthur didn't seem to like that answer and he scowled. He grumbled something to himself in irritation before speaking clearly.

"Okay, fine. But you didn't answer my question."

"I _just_ did, lad."

"Not that. Why didn't you beat me?"

Alistair wasn't particularly fond on the way the youth seemed to sober up with this question, but instead of scolding his brashness he refilled the boy's glass with the last of the bottle, satisfied enough when Arthur took it without question or complaint. He did, however, keep staring expectantly at the fire-haired lord, waiting for his answer.

Alistair looked back to the fire and buried a hand in his hair. With a sigh, he decided maybe being honest wouldn't be so bad.

He had the alcohol to blame now, after all.

"I do not like to punish someone who acts a certain way to protect himself or others. I would've been angrier had you not resisted."

"Really?" Arthur's curious tone seemed childish. "Huh," a pause, then, "is that why you never beat me for what happened with Caitlin back then? ...Ooor why I wasn't punished more for the first time I tried running away?"

The blatant curiosity normally would've made Alistair a little uneasy and he would throw up walls of anger and annoyance to defend himself. This time he could credit his nonchalance to the wine.

"I suppose that's as good an answer as any."

"Huh," Arthur repeated, turning towards him. "You're really a nice person underneath it all, aren't you?"

Alistair was careful not to react outwardly, but his thoughts ground to a halt at these words. He flicked his stare to the boy, taking in those wide eyes – so much more innocent than they usually were – that honest expression and the bright smile. He was certain the youth wouldn't be saying such things were it not for the amount of alcohol in his system. He wasn't quite sure if this was a good thing yet.

Too tired to shield himself from a boy too drunk to keep himself from swaying, Alistair let himself relax.

"Sometimes," was all he said.

The two lapsed into silence again, broken once more by the younger of the pair.

"I don't hate you," Arthur admitted, eyes downcast. Alistair chuckled sharply, finishing the last of the wine in his glass.

"Don't lie, boy."

"Okay," Alistair nearly jumped when the boy moved suddenly, leaning forward with his weight on his hands and his expression sincere. "I don't _always_ hate you."

The Scot searched the youth's face for a sign that he was still lying – that he wasn't being as honest as he looked. He found nothing, but couldn't bring himself to be disappointed in this. It was another thing he blamed easily on the wine.

"Fair enough," he relinquished.

"I don't hate you now."

"I know." The man went to take a drink, disappointed when he noticed that his glass was empty. He grumbled internally, searching for the Brit's glass nearby, only to see that it too had been depleted.

"I mean, you _do_ have a horrible temper and you're crazy and twisted and sometimes I worry that you'll snap and just kick me around for a while or go on some sort of rampage, and when you get mad and start yelling you terrify just about _everyone_." He rolled his head dramatically with "everyone," then snapped his jade eyes right back to the lord. "S'weird, 'cause I've sort of gotten used to it, but there's only so much I can adapt to and truth be told you're still really scary," Arthur stopped to breathe. "But there are still some times where you can be nice. You're nice to Alfred and the french kid, Martin-"

"Matthew."

"- Matthew, and sometimes your sense of humour isn't all bad and I'm pretty sure someone less tolerant than you would've done as Duff tried and cut out my tongue like, months ago. You do...little things, I guess."

"Little things?" echoed Alistair, genuinely curious.

"You don't...talk about...no, no wait. Let me try again." Alistair raised an eyebrow, but did not interrupt. "Your actions speak louder than your words. The nice things you do in a day make it easier to overlook the things you say."

Unable to answer to that, the Scot could only stare.

"So...So...I don't...I don't _always_ hate you...Just sometimes."

The boy's courage seemed to leave him at this and his eyes fell to the floor, it was only when Alistair let a warm chuckle rumble through his chest that Arthur looked back. He studied the smiling face of the Scottish lord carefully.

"Just sometimes," he repeated quietly.

Then he let his eyes flutter closed and he leaned further forward. He kept his lips just barely parted, his chin tipped up ever so slightly. He remained that way for some time, waiting expectantly, and it was obvious what he was trying to initiate. The elder man felt a sudden pang of desire shoot through his heart and down to his groin, but he remained still. He studied the young man in the firelight – the way it caught his wild blonde hair and gave his pale skin a strange glow. His eyes lingered for a moment on the pink blush across the Brit's cheeks, then he found himself staring at the lips that remained parted and he could smell the wine on the lad's breath.

He stared for a moment longer, and that was all the time it took for a wolfish grin to plant itself on his face. He couldn't resist.

He leaned back and laughed.

"What are ye doin', Arthur?"

His laughter startled the boy and made him withdraw quickly. Arthur's face went impossibly redder and he turned away, trying to hide his blush in his hands. He babbled into the flesh of his palms, desperately fumbling to justify his actions while entirely unaware that Alistair still watched him with a forced grin.

"You-! I thought-! I've had a lot to drink and it was just...You had this look on your face and I thought- ...Oh god...I'm drunk and I-"

The abrupt stop was surprising, and Alistair raised an eyebrow. The boy was absolutely still, marking the lord worry that the attendant had just had a mental shutdown.

When Arthur finally lowered his hands from his face, his expression was blank. He slowly lifted his stare to the red-headed Scot, who waited with an unusual amount of patience for an explanation.

"I have lost count of the amount of time I have spent here," he stated cautiously, "but not once before now have you ever called me by my first name."

Alistair tensed as he too realized his error and he narrowed his eyes dangerously. It bothered him to have made the slip in the first place, but it bothered him more that the liquored up Arthur had caught it. He knew his displeasure was evident on his face, but the youth watched him, unafraid, and something in that expression undid him. He frowned, his tone low when he spoke at last.

"I guess I've been had, then."

Alistair reached forward with both hands and grabbed the Brit by the collar, pulling the younger man against him and crashing their lips together. The action was so swift that the youth fumbled for balance, finding purchase against the Scot's shoulders. For a moment, Arthur was caught between pushing the man away and pulling him closer, awkwardly kneading at his chest with the indecision.

The Scot didn't let him decide, he released the youth's collar and grabbed his knee, pulling him close and hooking his leg up on his hip. He kept their lips locked as he pushed Arthur down onto his back. He ignored the strangled grunt of protest and pressed his knuckles into the younger's collarbone. He nipped harshly at the softer lips until they parted and he was free to taste the wine on the lad's tongue.

They remained laced like that until the boy was trembling beneath him, the blush on his face having spread to his ears and those eyes distant when they found his own. He pulled away, listening intently to the youth's breathless gasps, aware that now the blonde had a white-knuckled grip on the front of his shirt.

"W-what is...W-why..."

Alistair silenced the young man with another bruising kiss, distracting him by slipping a warm hand under the hem of his undershirt, pushing up along a taut stomach and pressing his blunt fingertips into soft flesh. His other hand kept Arthur's leg around his hip.

Then all at once Alistair felt a pressure on his chest and realized he was being pushed away. He pulled back with an annoyed growl, but did not give the boy more than a few inches space, and his fingers still massaged slowly into Arthur's ribs.

"A-Alistair."

That stutter – that breathless gasp of his name on swollen lips – they were sounds too delicious to ignore and the Scot descended again. It made it all the more aggravating when he was pushed back a second time and the boy turned his head away.

"_Arthur_," he hissed, shifting his hand to grip tightly at the boy's hip.

"N-no, you can't."

Alistair sat up, but did not look pleased to do so.

"_You_ started this, boy," the man snarled, worked up and impatient. "You can't back out now."

Those jade eyes snapped up to him and he was caught off guard by the fire in them – caught off guard, yes, but no less enticed. He swept down again, tempted to bite the hand that came up to press against his mouth. He frowned behind the boy's palm.

"And _you_ can't use my name," the boy shot back, watching as Alistair's eyes narrowed again. He was dead still, pressed under the eager weight of the elder man and trying to pick all the right words. "You can't use it and not know..."

He turned his head away at that point, missing the way the Scot's eyes flashed knowingly. It was why he was surprised to hear the man chuckle and lean back, sitting up straight and removing his hands from the blonde.

"Not know, lad? You wound me."

Arthur arched his eyebrows up in confusion, watching as the man pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it aside.

"I have beneath me, _Prince _Arthur _Kirkland_, second son to the King of England and heir to the English throne, after your brother, of course."

Arthur's blood ran cold and his first instinct was the punch the man.

So he tried.

Unfortunately his strike was slow and poorly aimed and Alistair caught it easily. With a lascivious smile, the lord gently shifted his grip from the blonde's clenched fist to his wrist before pressing it down into the rug.

"You _knew?!_" the blonde hissed. The shock helped to sober him and he promptly began to struggle under the Scot's weight. "All this fucking time, _you knew?!_"

"Did ye think me daft? You didn't hide it well," Alistair teased, leaning forward and catching the boy's other hand in his own. "Though at first I thought p'raps I'd made an error, and that the prince's name really was _Alan_ and not Arthur."

In the moments it took Arthur to process this information he was more or less still. The Scot used this hesitation to his advantage. He pinned the boy's wrists above his head with one strong hand while the buttons of his vest were swiftly pulled apart with his other.

Snapping back to attention, Arthur renewed his struggling and freed a hand. For a second time he tried to punch the man, and this time when Alistair caught his fist he laced their fingers together and squeezed tightly. Both of his hands were pinned beside his head and Alistair ducked down to pull the boy's shirt up with his teeth.

"For how long, exactly?" Arthur demanded, trying to ignore the tingles that followed the press of the Scot's lips as he began peppering the younger body with soft kisses. It was how Alistair had decided to try and ease the prince's anger. "For how long?!" he repeated.

"Two weeks," Alistair said simply, resting his forehead momentarily on the blonde's heaving chest, listening to the faint flutter of his heart. "Two weeks after you arrived here."

Arthur made a strangled sound and squeezed his eyes shut. Part of him felt betrayed and he wanted to cry, but he refused the reflex. And then something clicked.

"_That's_ what you were talking about!"

"Hmm?"

"You and Francis!"

Alistair tensed against his captive and gave the boy a dangerous look.

"What do you mean?"

But Arthur was not ashamed and he felt no guilt for his actions – especially now that he knew this man had kept this big of a secret from him for so long.

"The first time you met with him, and the last time, I overheard parts your conversations in the study. At the time, I thought he was just urging you to...contribute more to the Scottish loyalists. But now I know. He wanted you to use me."

Alistair held himself over Arthur, saying nothing, so the young man continued.

"He was pushing you to use me as leverage against the English...that's...that's what you were fighting about..." And, in a rare moment of drunken genius, Arthur picked the right words to say. "But...you didn't...you never did – not in the war."

The blonde watched those emerald eyes become sad, and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Why?"

The Scottish noble regarded the boy beneath him carefully and the Brit stared right back.

It felt like an eternity before the Scot let out a long sigh.

"Originally, I had every intention to. You were going to be the weapon in this war that would get me closer to the top of the monarchy. But..."

He pressed a chaste kiss to the hollow of the boy's throat and relaxed his grip, now holding loosely to Arthur's wrist and hand respectively. He spoke so softly that Arthur strained to hear him.

"I have come to love ye, lad, and it's ruining me."

Whatever struggling Arthur still intended to do fizzled away into nothing, every ounce of his attention on the man above him.

"I should have – I _should be _using you as a tool against the English. It makes all the sense in the world." Though he was no longer being forcefully restrained, Arthur felt immobilized nevertheless by the weight of Alistair's soft-spoken words.

"But I _can't_. I should, and sometimes I'd like to think that I _would_." The man sat back on his heels, his hands sliding down Arthur's arms until he fanned his hands out against that pale stomach. He narrowed his eyes and let his fingers curl around the youth's waist possessively. "I'd lose you if I did, and I don't want that."

"You're selfish," Arthur said bluntly.

"Aye, I have never denied that," the Scot agreed, "but you have not attempted to run from me in months. You had every opportunity to – hell, lad, I practically _told_ you to run, but still you stayed. You claimed you were staying for them but it is _me_ who you are with the most." With renewed energy, the lord leaned forward and hovered over the younger man with a sly grin. "I may be selfish, Arthur, but _you_ are a liar."

Whatever sobriety the conversation had kicked up was steadily beginning to slip for Arthur's mind. The world swayed – this time more violently as if the information exchanged had made it all worse. He hiccoughed, the sound involuntary and he flushed at it. The wolfish grin was back on the man's face and he dipped his head to press gentle kisses to the blonde's neck.

"I knew, too," Arthur whispered, and the Scot hummed in response, sucking and nipping at the soft flesh of his throat. "I had to – how could I not?"

He felt the warm wetness of the man's tongue trace up his neck and he bashfully tried to lean away from it, stopped when the man cupped the side of his face with a hand and held him still. Alistair planted a quick, gentle kiss on the boy's lips, but the look in his eyes was anything but innocent.

"I just didn't want to believe it...I didn't want to think on w-why," Arthur felt defeat swelling in his chest, warm with drink and quickly becoming tired with all the thinking he was doing while this admittedly handsome man above him did such distracting things with his mouth on his skin.

"Arthur," the youth decided he liked the way his name sounded in that brogue. "You're a hypocrite." Alistair scolded the boy playfully, pecking him on the nose with that deceptive softness before sitting back. Arthur opened his mouth to argue, stopped when the Scot pressed a finger firmly against his lips. "Hush," he said curtly. "Save it."

He lowered his hand slowly, watching the boy with those glittering eyes in case he tried to speak again. When he was sure Arthur wouldn't try to pointlessly argue, his hands flitted down to the blonde's hips and he pulled him flush against him.

"Now I don't know if you've noticed, lad," he drawled, bending at the waist to draw a trail of warm, wet kisses down the boy's neck, through the fabric of his shirt and down to his exposed abdomen. "But I am incredibly aroused, more than a little drunk and am getting quite tired of that conversation."

"B-but-"

"Shut up," Alistair reminded sharply, his lips moving against the youth's skin. "I've had quite enough bickering for one night. Why don't we just accept that we two have an impressive set of baggage between us that we may or may not choose to just ignore later," The Scot elicited a reluctant whimper when he bit into the soft flesh by young man's hip. "Because if you did not want this I imagine you would have already attacked me with the wine bottle."

It was then that Arthur realized that the bottle he spoke of was within arm's reach, and that he very well could have grabbed it and used it as a weapon to beat off the eager Scot. He'd like to think he wasn't really being given a fair chance to think about fighting back, because Alistair distracted him quite marvellously with warm kisses and precise bites and an increasing pressure against his hips.

"So," Alistair paused, his palm over the blonde's belt as he looked down to the flustered youth with a predatory smirk. "Why don't we come back to all that nonsense another time and put this buzz to better use, aye?"

Arthur knew how he should have responded. He should have been more forceful in pushing the man away – maybe even reached for that wine bottle. For all the emotional headway they had made, Arthur wasn't entirely sure letting the man go any further was the smartest thing to do. After all, while the lord had confessed – the youth had not done the same.

But Alistair had been working hard to distract him with the clever use of his lips and teeth and tongue, and Arthur couldn't remember a time before where he felt as warm and wanted. Maybe it was the alcohol that silenced his protests, or the honesty in Alistair's eyes when he spoke, or something deeper Arthur had been intentionally ignoring for weeks now, but the lad did not tell the Scot to stop.

He did not push him away. He reached up instead and wrapped his arms around Alistair's neck, lifting himself up to press a hesitant kiss on smirking lips.

It was all the answer Alistair needed and he lowered the boy slowly back to the floor.

* * *

**Guys.  
****I had a beaver tail today. And it was delicious.  
****LOVE YOU, CANADA.****  
**

**In other news: because it's Canada day I'm uploading. Happy Canada day! Longest chapter yet aaaaand I probably had far too much fun writing it. Drunken shenanigans are always the best kinds of shenanigans.**

**I can't remember if I did a final edit of this or not, so forgive any minor errors you see. I'll be 'round to fix them later. For now, I'm off to watch fireworks and yell happy things at random strangers and probably drink some Molson Canadians too.**

**As I'm sure you all know, I live for your reviews and look forward to reading each and every one of them. Keep them coming, 'cause they keep me going**

**Thanks so much for reading this far, I look forward to hearing from you.**

**Until next time**

**Ami.**


	11. Chapter 11

It was the first time in months that Arthur was not kicked awake by a frantic mental alarm. For a while, he was caught in a semi-conscious limbo. He was awake, but he was not. The very basic functions of his mind were beginning to buzz with life and one by one his senses returned to him behind his eyelids.

He first became aware of a dull throbbing in the back of his skull – he could hear his blood pulsing in his ears and he felt his face contort in discomfort. Next, as he tried to shift his muscles and speed up his awakening, he realized just how heavy his body felt. He was stiff and sore and his first attempt to move earned him a lance of pain up his spine.

At the very least the pain helped to jolt him back into consciousness and he opened his eyes.

The first thing that came to his conscious mind was just how _furious_ Alistair would be that Arthur overslept.

And then, in time with the steady pulsing of his aching brain, the memories began to trickle back and he registered that he was not staring at a dull wall as he usually did first thing in the morning. He stared instead into the bare chest of another man.

Of a Scot.

_Of Alistair_.

Arthur couldn't summon words, so he settled for a strained squawk as he shoved himself away with probably more force than necessary. Alistair grunted as he was shoved and Arthur rolled, fully intent on scrambling off of the grand mattress and diving to the safety of the floor.

But a bruising grip clamped down on his hips and pulled him back until he was pressed into the Scot's chest. He made a strangled series of noises as he squirmed, but the man was as immovable as a bear and wrapped the youth in his arms, keeping him close.

"G'morn' t'ye tae," he mumbled, barely intelligible.

"Good- Good morning?!"

The Scot grunted again, and Arthur couldn't wrap his head around his nonchalance. He began to squirm again, and Alistair answered by tightening his hold around the boy's waist and resting his chin atop his head.

"'S still early, stop wigglin'."

Arthur did stop, but not because he was told to. He was at a loss for words, his brain having fizzed out and leaving him with his mouth working silently. Alistair must've fallen asleep again in the time it took for the boy to reboot, because when the blonde began to squirm again the Scot was slower to respond.

But no less firm when he pulled the youth back into his chest.

Flustered and confused and in more pain than Arthur cared to think about, the Englishman furrowed his brow and moped.

"I hate you," he grumbled, irritated.

"That's fine, but could ye do it quieter?"

Arthur planted his hands against the arms that held his waist and tried to push them off.

"'N with less squirmin', please."

With a frustrated huff, the blonde blew some strands of messy hair away from his eyes. The warmth that rushed to his face didn't help the fact that he felt like he was overheating, trapped in the arms of a brute of a Scot and forced to be quiet and endure.

But the quiet brought back embarrassing memories – breathless moans and whispered words of endearment – and only made him flush more. He felt like he was about to catch fire, an unease churning in his stomach and he wished he was one of those drunks who woke up completely oblivious to the night's events.

He went more and more red as the night came back with increasing clarity.

_What have you done, Arthur?_ He wanted to curl up into a ball and shut his brain off, but the strong arms of the dozing Scot prevented even that. He would be disowned by his family, that was for sure. He'd be discovered for his sins and labelled a proud satanist, paraded through the cities to be beheaded or burned; whatever suited the folk more. Of all the things...and of _all the people._

_Alistair?_ Really? He couldn't have picked a worse person to condemn his eternal soul for. He was irritable and lazy, vengeful and probably insane. It would kill his mother to know that her son, the prince, had been bedded by a sinful Scottish lord after a few drinks and some emotional confessions.

_I have come to love ye, lad, and it's ruining me._

He could still hear Alistair's voice, clear as anything, in his head. How sincere he'd sounded – how sober. Arthur almost wanted to believe it had been more genuine than what it was, and no matter his later punishments, he would hold onto those words and the feelings they had brought him.

The feeling of warmth. The feeling that he was special for some reason other than his title and lineage. The feeling that he was _wanted_, not as a placeholder for an ornate chair and a fancy crown, but as a human being. The feeling that Alistair cared for him enough to forsake a chance at that crown.

"I kin practically hear yer brain burnin' up in that head o' yers, lad," Alistair's voice cut calmly through Arthur's frantic thoughts. "Relax."

"Relax? _Really?_ Relax?!" Arthur was shaking. "Oh lord forgive us...what have we done..."

He yelped as he was turned suddenly and the Scot rolled on top of him. Arthur stared wide-eyed up at the Scottish lord, who regarded the youth with chagrin. He was caged by the hands that held the man up, pressing into the pillow on either side of his head.

"What do ye think, boy?"

Arthur didn't want to vocalize what he thought, so he just stared blankly and when he realized he wasn't getting a response, Alistair rolled his eyes.

"Honestly, Arthur, tae think ye may've one day ruled England."

The young man huffed indignantly, narrowing his eyes.

"Certainly not anymore. I'd be surprised if God didn't strike me down by week's end."

"God, lad?"

"Yes! Please don't tell me you're a heretic. I don't think my heart can take it."

"The good lord knows to not meddle in th' lives and loves of his people. He judges not who ye love, but _how_ ye come tae love them."

There was a beat of silence, and Arthur looked lost.

"Love?" he echoed.

"Ye deaf, lad?"

Alistair sighed, irritated, then collapsed into the mattress beside the blonde. He turned his back to Arthur, pulling his covers back up to his shoulder. That would've been the ideal time to make his escape, but now the Brit was curious.

"You keep throwing that word around a lot," he observed quietly, sitting up and looking over to where Alistair lay facing away.

"It's bin a long time comin'."

"Really?"

"Ye have nae idea, boy."

Arthur made a face, then propped his elbow against his knee and rested his chin in the palm of his hand.

"Yes well, if you're not careful, someone may start to believe you when you say it."

At this, Alistair rolled back over. He did not rise, but merely regarded the young man with an unreadable expression from below.

"Ye donnae believe me?"

In hindsight, Alistair sounded somewhere between angry and annoyed, but in that moment Arthur could hear nothing.

"We were drunk."

"Aye."

"Drunk people do stupid things."

"And I'm not denyin' that."

"They say things they don't mean."

"An' oft' they share a lot o' hard-kept secrets, too."

"Alistair," Arthur shut his eyes to hide whatever emotion they may have been betraying. "You can't be serious."

"I can, lad. But _I'm_ not th' real problem here, am I?"

Arthur turned his head away and furrowed his brows without opening his eyes. In his silence, the lord found something to chuckle at.

"You're a hypocrite, Arthur."

And the boy did not indulge him with a response. He simply sat, silent, refusing to open his eyes or turn back in any way. So Alistair set his lips into a hard line and swung his legs up, planting his feet against the boy's side and pushed quite suddenly. The swift action shoved the boy off the end of the bed and sent him clattering to the floor in a heap of white sheets.

"Make yerself useful 'n go fetch us some breakfast, boy."

Arthur cursed from the floor, disentangling himself from the linen.

"I should have smothered you in your sleep," he growled as he rose. He stomped around to the end of the bed where his clothes had been thrown messily over the post. He dressed with the Scot watching him, wearing that infuriating knowing smile.

"'N I donnae suppose yer gonna tell me why ye dinn't?"

Arthur flushed at the challenge, but refused to be goaded into another stupid, emotional conversation he didn't have the patience for. He jammed his buttons through each slit of fabric and tried to straighten out his appearance: he smoothed the wrinkles from his pants and fixed his collar, then flattened down his hair as much as he could.

It took a great deal amount of focus to walk normally and banish any lingering soreness from his expression. He left the room composed, though he felt those mocking eyes on his back until he'd shut the door behind him.

* * *

It was on his way back from the kitchen with a tray that he ran into Cait.

He had to tell Bella that the Laird Alistair was feeling a little under the weather and that he would be eating his morning meal in bed today. The girl tittered at something he didn't understand, then quickly condensed the meal she and her cooks had been preparing and sent Arthur away.

He was just passing the study when the Irish girl came pelting down the hall, her face red and her eyes wide with alarm.

"Arthur! There you are!"

The blonde blinked a few times, willing his brain to work through his confusion.

"...Yes?"

"We were worried! Nobody saw you doin' your rounds this morning, and you weren't in your quarters at sunrise." She lowered her voice to a hushed whisper. "Some people were sayin' you'd tried to run again."

The attendant laughed sheepishly and tried to banish the urge to blush.

"Haha, no, not quite. I just overslept today. Thankfully Alistair-" he stopped himself quickly, not quite comfortable with sharing the real reason for their lord's lethargy, "-Alistair hadn't noticed. He isn't feeling well."

Cait nodded, looking relieved. It was as she was about to speak again that she suddenly froze, her entire being still as her eyes zeroed in on Arthur's neck.

She moved too quickly for the youth to react and startled him into dropping the tray. The noise echoed down the hall, but neither of the duo really noticed it. Caitlin had her hands on the blonde's collar, pulling back the fabric to reveal the skin it covered. Arthur blanched when he realized that the Irish woman was pressing her fingers into a colourful love bite, her eyes wide. He had completely forgotten the amount of marks Alistair had left.

"Cait, I can explain."

She ignored him and pulled apart his vest with deft fingers. Arthur wanted to protest, but part of him decided if he was condemned, why hide it? It may count for something in the end.

He did mumble a complaint when she pulled his shirt up and covered his face with it as she studied his torso. He was littered with red blemishes and marks where Alistair's grip had been so strong it had bruised his flesh. He heard the young woman gasp softly, letting his shirt fall back down to cover his shame.

"Caitlin, I-"

"Did he do this?" She demanded. Her tone was no-nonsense and her eyes were furious.

"I- Well, y-yes, but-"

"Did he force himself on you?"

Arthur considered lying – considered placing all the blame on Alistair and then trying to convince himself of the like. It would make it all easier to deal with. After all, he had been _quite_ drunk and they both learned pretty quickly Arthur was not very good at handling his liquor while Alistair would be the champion were it a sport. And while it wasn't entirely unwanted, there had been a lot of physical force involved.

The youth scolded himself internally and banished those thoughts from his mind.

He had learned the hard way what sort of things came from lying just to save his own skin – especially in personal matters like these, and to friends he cared about like Caitlin.

But his indecision had been showing on his face the entire time and the little Irish woman did not have the patience to wait for a response. In her mind, the conflicted expression had been enough of an answer and she turned, stomping back towards Alistair's quarters.

"Wait!" The Brit reacted before his brain had really processed what was going on. He stepped over the tray and caught the girl by the wrist. She turned back, mid step, surprised. She stared expectantly, eyebrows arched upwards as she waited for Arthur's explanation. "I-it's not like that."

Arthur rallied the rest of his composure and banished the stutter from his voice. He was raised as royalty, and besides that he was raised to carry a little more pride in himself than this.

"It's not like that," he repeated firmly. "It's not entirely his fault. I am as much to blame. We were drunk, and things got out of hand."

The woman turned completely and Arthur let her go. She studied his expression carefully for quite some time, and the youth was sure that she was reading into it and learning more than his words could ever coherently share. It was one of the things about Cait that made her such a valuable friend: she could tell just by looking at you what sort of things were on your mind.

But her reaction to this startled Arthur out of his pride and he felt himself falter.

She smiled, sighed and said,

"Ah, alright. Then it's about time."

The young man's efforts to reign himself in were for nothing, because this made him crumble a second time.

"I beg your pardon?"

Cait kept smiling at him as if it were obvious.

"The two o' you have had this coming for a while."

_What?_

"B-but-" Arthur was stuttering again out of shock. It was one of the things he hated about himself, and rushed to correct once again. "What are you talking about?"

His confusion was what tipped Cait off to the true state of affairs between the two and her smile only brightened.

"Oh, Arthur, you're a wee emotionally stifled, aren't you?"

"Please explain."

Caitlin laughed.

"I have been here for years, Arthur, and never have I seen our Laird come to care for someone as much as he has you." While Arthur stood there with his mouth hanging open, at a loss for words, the woman smoothed out her skirts and continued. "Maybe you can't see it because you're involved, but from the outside, it's fairly clear. He's patient with you, he tolerates your insults and your insubordination, he's happy when you're happy and he worries when you're gone."

Arthur shut his mouth with a click and frowned.

"I know no one told you, but that first time you ran away, he didn't say a word. He got on his horse and took off after you without speaking to anyone. It was Steven who rallied soldiers to chase after our Laird to assist." The woman turned and took both of the young man's hands in her own. "He cares dearly for you, even if he has a funny way of showing it."

"I'd hardly call running after an escaped _slave_ an act of caring."

"I told you, you probably can't see it because you're involved, or you just don't know Alistair well enough to tell."

"I'd like to think-"

But Cait interrupted.

"Did he ever tell you about his last attendant?"

With a sigh, Arthur relented.

"Only that he had the poor man burned for treason."

"So, no, then? He didn't?"

The blonde frowned, and Cait pressed on.

"It's hard to be around someone so much and not come to care for them. Alistair's last attendant wasn't as much a servant as he was a dear friend. They were very close, and they knew each other from a time before Alistair became Laird of Forfarshire. But James hated this war, and he blamed the state o' Scotland for it."

"What did he do?"

The woman's smile faltered and she looked sad as she continued.

"He believed that a united Scotland would work best under English rule. He believed there would be less petty squabbles for power and less continued threats of invasion from England if we were just part of their kingdom."

Arthur could already tell this story was not a happy one, and he wasn't sure he was ready to hear it all, but he did not interrupt.

"Alistair had quite a hand in the commandin' o' the Scottish rebels, and James was leaking information to the Disinherited in Fife. Eventually, James was given an order to kill Laird Graham in his sleep."

A heavy silence followed these words and Arthur regretted his earlier threat to the man – even if only briefly.

"Laird Graham awoke before he got the chance to, but he couldn't kill the lad. He had him thrown in the dungeon until he could figure out how to deal with the betrayal while the guilt drove James to take his own life."

The woman finally let Arthur's hands fall lifelessly to his side.

"Alistair was furious and had the body burnt, and he sort of collapsed in on himself after that. He was angrier and quick to discipline, he saw traitors everywhere and began to fear for his position. He slept fitfully and with a dagger under his pillow. It only really changed a while after you arrived. We would theorize that he just needed someone with the courage to yell back when he got angry, or to point out when he was being an idiot or unnecessarily cruel, and you had no reservations about doing any of those things."

"I suppose you could say you helped to steady him."

As the girl's voice faded out and the silence returned, Arthur felt so many things begin to fall into place. It was as if this entire situation was a puzzle and this new information helped him find pieces that he'd been missing for months. Questions what had gone unanswered didn't need to be answered any more – why did Alistair not scold him more for his sharp tongue? Why was the Brit kept around in the first place, if the Scotsman pretty well always knew who he really was? Why had he been pinned under a frantic Alistair at knife point just for trying to wake him up? A lot of it made at least some sense now.

Except for one thing.

There was an inexplicable weight on his heart and the nagging feeling that something was missing.

"My breakfast!"

Arthur looked beyond Caitlin's shoulder and the girl turned to face where Alistair stood, dressed to the nines for battle – that ridiculous kilt, the blue beret and the plethora of weapons tucked into his belt. His eyes, however, were on the mess of breakfast on the ground and he looked decidedly sad.

"Ach, ye good fer nothin'..." He approached the pair and Caitlin wisely shuffled aside, unsurprised when the man smacked the blonde upside the head. "I was hungry!"

Arthur swore at the strike.

"Then you should have gotten something yourself or just plain _gotten out of bed_, you lazy git!" He huffed, the crouched down to angrily throw plates and bread and foodstuffs back on the tray. When he stood, it clicked that Alistair was dressed for war. "What's going on?"

The Scotsman grinned.

"A messenger came by while ye were _slackin'_ tae tell me tha' I once again have British loyalists on my land at th' Perthshire border. 'M off tae tell 'em they aren't welcome."

Arthur stared up at the Scot and kept his expression blank, because he knew that the man was looking for a reaction. When he got none, the fire-haired lord rolled his eyes with an amused smile. His hand shot out and grabbed the blonde by the back of the neck and pulled him close. Arthur's entire face went deep red when he was forced into a kiss _right in front of Caitlin_, and he grunted in protest, trying to shove at the man's torso with his tray. His halfhearted attempts were ignored and when he was released, the lord paused only to peck a much gentler kiss on the youth's forehead.

"Now donnae ye run off while 'm gone, or I'll have ye bound to my bed when I drag ye back again." The man chuckled and stepped around the Brit. Arthur had once again shut down in shock, feeling as if his entire body was on fire and burned with shame. As Alistair sauntered merrily away, the lad cast a nervous look to where Caitlin stood aside.

But the woman was smiling somewhat scandalously behind a hand and her eyes glittered with mischief.

* * *

"How far is the Perthshire border from here?"

Arthur wondered aloud, meticulously sorting through the documents on Alistair's desk while Michelle dusted around the study. He pushed a neat stack of papers to the corner.

"Ah...if it's also pretty close to Fife, not too far. On a healthy horse one could make it there within the hour."

Arthur grunted, then quietly resumed sorting. Out of his peripheries he could see Michelle slowly stop her dusting and turn towards him.

"They would be there by now, if that's what you were wondering."

The Brit said nothing, but tucked away that information in the back of his mind.

* * *

By noon, Alistair and his soldiers had still not returned.

Arthur had spent a good fifteen minutes pacing behind the estate gates, and during that time the gatekeeper leaned out of his watchtower and called down to the boy, sounding a little uncertain.

"Did ye...did ye want me tae open th' gate, sairr?"

He lifted his head, his expression blank, and stared up at the guard.

It was easy to remember a time when the very same gatekeeper would warn him away, a time where no one within the estate walls would have ever addressed the bitter attendant as 'sir.' But Arthur had already proved himself a source of leadership in a trying time for the staff and servants and soldiers alike. When Alistair was not around, it was _him_ who they looked to for direction, but Arthur had never quite adjusted to hearing that honorific from the Scottish folk.

The blonde bit his cheek, then shook his head.

"No, thank you," he responded, "sorry for troubling you."

The man only grunted, watching with sympathy as the attendant turned away from the gates and strode back to the castle doors without another word.

* * *

Halfway through the afternoon, Arthur was anxious. He puttered around the estate looking for any menial task to keep him busy. Alfred sat on a stool and watched the young man dust the same bookshelf three times.

"Are you worried?" he asked, curious.

Arthur stopped abruptly, made a noise akin to a scoff, then turned to dust at a shelf that Michelle had already cleaned.

"It's okay, he'll come back," Alfred smiled, "he did before, right?"

The child didn't understand why the Brit only grunted and continued his pointless work. Alfred tilted his head to one side and made a puzzled face. He thought things through until he believed he knew what the problem was and had selected the best words of comfort.

"Hey!"

Arthur turned and raised a thick eyebrow.

"It's like you said," the boy leaned forward in his stool, "Alistair had to leave you behind 'cause he needed you here! He needed someone to make sure that..." he pouted as he struggled to remember the exact words. "...That someone would keep an eye on things and make sure everyone did their chores!"

The Englishman felt a small smile tug at his lips. It wasn't because he felt better, but because the boy was doing his best to comfort someone obviously agitated.

"Nothing has gone wrong here yet, right?"

Arthur laughed softly.

"No, it hasn't."

The little scamp threw his arms up in celebration.

"See? You're doing a great job!"

Warmed by the child's attempts to spread good cheer, Arthur crossed the room to where the boy sat. He hoisted Alfred up and rested the boy's weight on his hip.

"Alright, you got me."

"Good, 'cause I'm hungry and Bella wouldn't feed me."

Arthur laughed again. He should've known the boy had an ulterior motive to worming his way into Arthur's good favour. But he'd succeeded, and the Brit was still welcoming any and all distractions.

"Well let's you and I go have a word with Bella, and see if we can't get her to bend some rules."

* * *

Snack time with Alfred came and went.

But Alistair had still not returned.

Arthur had distracted himself in every possible way. He'd washed Alistair's sheets and blankets, his own clothes, and then even took some time to bathe. The laundry dried in the light of the evening sun and the laird was still missing.

There had not even been a breathless messenger by to bring them news of the Scotsman's conquest.

He was standing at the window overlooking the gates when Cait passed behind him.

"Figure it out yet?" she asked softly, pausing beside him.

"What?"

She laughed that melodious laugh of hers and patted the blonde gently on the hand before leaving him to his thoughts.

"I guess not."

* * *

It was just after sunset that the gates finally opened and in rode a lone horseman. The gatekeeper heralded his arrival and Arthur strode out into the torchlight.

He was still as he watched the man dismount his horse. His uniform was soaked in blood and his beret was missing, but he approached the young attendant with confidence.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, studying the battered soldier and the bloodstained clothes.

"I thought you said you were going to _talk_ to them."

Alistair grinned roguishly.

"I've terrible manners, boy."

Then the laird realized he was being studied. He followed the blonde's stare to the blood soaking into his shirt.

"None o' it's mine," he said, pulling his shirt off over his head to prove it. He wasn't lying – his torso was unscathed, though a little darkened with dried blood and bruises and there was a pale scar where he'd been stabbed some weeks ago. "They took th' first shot, 'n we retaliated. They were actually _bona fide_ English this time, so naturally they lost horribly."

Arthur frowned, but Alistair did not apologize for his off hand insult. The youth couldn't bring himself to be mad, however. He was just relieved that the Scot was more or less unharmed – that he had returned alive and well.

Satisfied now with that information, Arthur turned and walked away.

"Ach, now just where do ye think you're goin'?" Alistair called, frowning. The young man paused by the door, flicked a look that was both irritated and concerned back to the fire-haired Scot, then entered the estate without answering.

The lord let him go, smiling despite his dismissal, because he knew what Arthur did not_._

* * *

It was late when there was a soft knocking at his door. Alistair had changed out of his bloodstained uniform and washed, dressing in loose pants and preparing to turn in for the night.

Alone, he noted bitterly, wondering where the little blonde had slunk off to.

But his bitterness evaporated when he called for the visitor to enter and Arthur stepped into the room. He leaned against the door to close it and kept his eyes on the floor off to his right.

"Welcome back, lad," the lord purred, an amorous smile pulling at his lips. "Did ye get lonesome?"

"Shut up."

Alistair chuckled at the snap, running a hand through his hair out of habit.

"Then what is it ye want, Arthur?"

As expected, the boy flushed at the sound of his name. Alistair had always hesitated to use it before, afraid that something may carry over in his tone that he didn't want the young man to hear or understand. But now that the proverbial cat was out of the bag, he used it freely – especially since discovering that his use of it flustered the Brit.

Without immediately answering, Arthur kept his back against the door and slid down into a sitting position. Alistair watched, still smiling, as the blonde buried his head in his hands. A familiar silence stretched between them for a few long minutes, broken when Arthur found the courage to speak.

"I was scared," he admitted at last, "that you wouldn't come back."

The lord's smile widened.

"I've been scared before by that though – after we got news that you'd been wounded in battle. But then, I was worried because the people I had come to care about here were so dependant on your survival. If you died, their lives would be torn apart."

Alistair took a few steps into the middle of the room, and he was still when he faced Arthur with his hands resting lazily in his pockets. He stared down at the boy who refused to lift his head and gazed into the floor instead.

"This time, I got scared again, but I wasn't worried about their lives." Arthur sounded self-loathing. "I was worried for an entirely selfish reason."

"I told ye, lad," mocked Alistair, "you're a hypocrite."

"Shut up!"

It was the subtle break in the boy's tone that told Alistair that he was fighting back tears. He noticed how tightly the blonde gripped at his hair, how he steadily seemed to be curling in on himself.

"I should _hate_ you," he hissed, repeating it desperately, "_I should hate you."_

He raised his eyes and Alistair could see that he had lost his own battle. Silent tears had begun to spill over from the jade colours.

"I should hate you," he said again, "but I don't. I _really_ don't."

"You're a sorry mess then, aren't ye?"

Alistair had suppressed the worst of his brogue, but he couldn't keep the taunt out of his tone and the boy could only answer it with a broken nod before he buried his face in his hands again. He stood patiently, listening as at last the youth broke completely. Part of him sympathized – and it was the part that motivated him to step forward and crouch to level with the Brit.

"Is it truly so bad?" he asked softly, and Arthur curled in on himself more. Alistair let out a long sigh. "Arthur, don't be a child."

"I love you."

The words were nothing more than a quiet breath, but the lord heard them nevertheless. He shifted to kneel on the floor in front of the younger man.

"I love you," Arthur repeated without moving. "I shouldn't. I know it's wrong and I know I shouldn't. I should hate you." He shook his head. "I should hate you and I don't."

Alistair reached forward, tilting the boy's chin up and then going to brush away the tears with his knuckles, frowning as he did so.

"I can't stand it when ye cry," he said simply, "ye sound like such a woman."

At this, Arthur narrowed his eyes with annoyance and set his lips into a hard line. He realized all too late that the comment was Alistair's backwards, somewhat cruel way to get the lad to stop crying. It worked, but it didn't make the Brit think any better of his lord.

"You're insufferable and I hate that I care about you."

"Love ye too," Alistair cooed, cupping the boy's face and leaning in to press an innocent kiss to the youth's forehead. He helped pull the boy to his feet, then pressed him back into the door to take his lips and kiss him deeply. It wasn't anything like the harsh and frantic kisses from the previous night. This exchange was softer and kinder, and were either man the type to speak such a word it could even be called romantic.

The elder man's hands ghosted down Arthur's sides until they gripped firmly at his waist. He pulled the youth away from the door, retreating slowly back to his bed with the blonde in tow. They tumbled together onto the mattress, and it was Alistair who lay beneath Arthur, though it was still very clear who led.

But when Alistair's hands travelled further down and made a lecherous grab at the younger's rear, Arthur suddenly pulled away and scowled.

"No," he hissed, and Alistair sulked. "_No," _he repeated, firmer. "I'm sore as all hell, you can just fuck right off."

Glad to hear the blonde's fire and foul language had returned, Alistair nipped playfully up at his neck, grinning wildly.

"You're ruinin' the moment, lad,"

"No, _you_ ruined the moment with your perverseness. Don't you dare try and blame me."

But Alistair kept on grinning, and Arthur huffed. All at once he rolled off the taller man and went to leave, stopped when the Scot snatched his wrist and held tight.

"Fair enough, Arthur, but stay here."

It was more of an order than a request.

Still, Arthur made a face as if deliberating it, ignoring how his lord watched him coldly, practically daring him to refuse.

"On one condition."

Alistair made no promises and raised an eyebrow.

"You must let me do one thing."

"And what is that?"

The young man spun quickly, climbing back atop the Scot and straddling his waist. Alistair smirked, thinking of all the wrong things when the younger leaned down, his hands on the lord's pillow, framing his head.

Cleverly, Arthur distracted the elder man with a sweet kiss while he slipped a hand under the pillow and felt for a solid object. Alistair stiffened quite suddenly when he felt something shift under his head, his heart seizing when the boy pulled his dagger out into the open.

Acting on instinct, he reached up and snatched the blonde's wrists, holding tightly as his face twisted into a snarl.

Arthur held his composure and did not react to the hostility.

"Relax," he said flatly, "if I intended to kill you, I would have done so by now."

"I doubt you could've," Alistair grumbled, "even if ye had wanted to." He held firm for a few long minutes, during which Arthur only stared and waited. Eventually, his grip began to slacken and the youth pulled his wrists free. He rose from the bed and set the thin dagger on the dresser, returning to ease the Scot's uncertainty with novice kisses and a warm embrace.

Alistair was obviously conflicted for a while, stealing glances at the dagger on the dresser when he thought Arthur was not watching. It wasn't long before Arthur settled, letting the larger man curl around him with only a small grumble of protest. Naturally he was ignored, but he fell asleep within minutes despite his wordless complaint.

When the boy was snoring softly in his arms, Alistair turned to glance back at the weapon on the dresser and momentarily considered retrieving it. With just marginal reluctance, the Scot shut his eyes and ignored the absence of steel. Instead he turned his attention on the sleeping Brit, who was no longer conscious to feel the way Alistair tightened his grip, affectionate and possessive and grateful all the same.

* * *

**Happy Wednesday, everyone!**

**And here's your update, as promised. Eleven chapters and I'm still going strong. Who knew?**

**Thanks so much to those of you who reviewed. I think I responded to most of them, but if I missed you it's because I'm an idiot (or you are a guest), so don't feel bad! Honestly, you lovely people are the reason I keep a steady update schedule, and the reason I get so excited to write. I just wish I could make it up to all of you.**

**Thank you for reading this far, please don't hesitate to review, they are the reasons I do what I do. I look forward to hearing from each and every one of you (:**

**Until next time,**

**Ami~**


	12. Chapter 12

Arthur woke alone in the grand bed, cocooned in the navy blankets and pleasantly warm. Judging by the light trickling through the window, the Brit knew he'd overslept and was still alive to tell the tale. He yawned, then stretched lethargically, sprawling out over the mattress that was easily twice as large as his and admittedly many times more comfortable.

It was then that it registered that Alistair was not in the bed with him and he turned his head to where the Scot usually lay, snoring loudly in his notorious deep sleep.

But for the second time in two weeks, Arthur had overslept and Alistair had gotten up before him and not scolded the attendant for it.

Despite being pretty much commanded to spend the nights with the Laird, he was still expected to complete his duties. Each morning he would have to subtly squirm out of Alistair's grip, mindful not to wake him, and leave the room as quietly as he could manage. Once he was free, he would wash and dress in clean clothes, then carry on with his day as usual.

This still included starting the morning by checking on the cooks, catching the news and fetching that pipe from the lord's study.

For the most part, Alistair had managed to keep his public displays of affection to a minimum and only those close to the contrasting duo ever noticed anything was different. But that didn't mean there weren't still times where the lord overstepped the imaginary boundaries Arthur tried to keep in place.

Like the time the Scot had slapped Arthur on the rear when he passed the table at dinner, and without missing a beat the blonde had turned and decked him across the face. Luckily for the both of them, Alistair was used to taking punches much stronger than the youth could throw and laughed at the blow. That laughter continued even after Arthur flushed red and stormed away, avoiding the red-haired man until Alistair cornered him later and apologized – not by saying "I'm sorry," but by telling him his right hook was improving.

And in turn, there were times Arthur unwittingly riled the Scot up and learned it was just easier to muffle his protests when he was jumped later. The most memorable occurrence being when he had listened idly to the nobles from surrounding settlements chatter about the growing threat of Fife soldiers around that multipurpose table.

Most of the time, Arthur stood by and let his mind wander, due to the fact that they bickered mostly in Gaelic. Every now and again, however, Alistair would bark something in English. The harsh words would draw the youth back to attention, always somewhat worried that it was him being yelled at this time – but no, Alistair was simply shifting the flow of the conversation, because once the Laird of Forfarshire began to speak in English, all the nobles followed suit.

To Arthur's understanding, the nobles were collectively worried, angry or scared, and one noble in particular pointed the finger of blame at Alistair for not doing more than defending.

"We shoods be rallyin' fer war," the spider-like man near the end of the table hissed, "we shoods ride doun tae Fife, cut through th' English, 'n take th' lord's hauld by force."

Alistair threw his hands up before dragging one down his face in frustration. Many of the other lords grumbled or rolled their eyes, and it was how Arthur came to recognize that this noble had been doing nothing but suggesting the same hair-brained scheme in Gaelic the entire time and pushing the matter until it became a shouting match.

"Then why don't you?"

The words tumbled from Arthur before he could remember to hold them in, and all eyes turned to where the young attendant stood by the wall behind Alistair's chair. He heard Laird Graham exhale, and something in that resigned sigh prompted the boy to take a few steps forward.

For a moment, he became Prince Arthur once again. However, it was a kind of Prince he could never remember having been before.

"I imagine you expect it'll be a jolly walk in the park, yeah?"

The noble looked confused to his left, then to his right, only to fix the blonde with an abashed stare.

"So why don't you take whatever war-happy idiots you can find and march on down there?"

His words were met with silence.

"Ah right, because war-happy idiots are a dying breed, as evident from the very population of this room." He fixed his jade eyes on the startled man. "And it's probably for the best, because if there were many more of the likes of you calling the shots around here, Scotland would likely be calling itself an English territory by now."

Something about the way these words were spoken by a boy with such a heavy upper-class English dialect made the nobles shift uncomfortably, but none of them interrupted.

"It is to my understanding that you have enjoyed a period of relative peace in Forfarshire, despite the fact that only two counties over the people are rioting in support of the English and even further south of that King Edward's army continues to try and push north. This is because your Laird has worked to make this a place of neutral standing. He will not support the English any more than he would throw his people into a fight against _other Scots_."

The attention had slowly begun to shift from the Englishman to the thin noble as meeting attendees watched for a reaction.

"I've listened to you lot bicker about the same thing for about a week now, and it's getting tiresome. If you so desire to march into battle, take your supporters and do so. Do not, however, intend to bring your war back home with you. There are refugees from those southern counties who have fled here for sanctuary and would take their business and trades and skills elsewhere if they thought it threatened by the very thing they are trying to escape."

Arthur was almost shocked the hear a quiet murmur of support and agreement from a couple of nobles who sat close to Alistair's end of the table.

"The majority of nobles in Forfarshire have struggled to send the message that they will not hesitate to repel attackers or those who wish to upset the peace. They will fight proudly to defend their homes and families, and _that is it_. Should the English make it this far, I've no doubt that you will have more than your fair share of people ready to fight, but for the time being – try to remember that those are your _fellow_ _countrymen_ you wish to slaughter, and not the English you claim to hate, you twit."

The insult slipped out, but it didn't matter. His words only added to the heavy blanket of silence that had settled over the gathering. Arthur was surprised that he felt no fear, just as he was surprised that the nobles still stared at the man at the other end of the table and not at him as they waited for a reaction. They received no show of anger or displeasure, for the man only lowered his head and muttered something in Gaelic.

It was the man who sat directly to Alistair's left who broke the silence. He was older, plump and his blue eyes were warm, his jaw covered by a bushy grey beard.

"That's quite th' attendant ye hae thaur, Laird Graham," he chuckled, and Arthur was relieved to hear the sound of laughter, "It's a wonder he doesnae hae a seat at yer table, tae."

Alistair responded with something in Gaelic that Arthur couldn't understand, and the men rippled with laughter. Prince Arthur retreated into the recesses of the boy's mind and he stepped back to go stand by the wall again. The conversation struck up anew with a Gaelic comment from a noble near the middle of the table and the meeting resumed.

The Brit noticed that the man who had been speaking out before now sat silently in his chair, his head bowed and his hands wrung in his lap. He didn't say another word the entire time, but no one really complained.

The gathered nobles had barely left the grounds when Alistair pinned the boy against the wall and proceeded to ravish him with kisses and bites and lewd gropes. Arthur's struggles had only been halfhearted, more concerned for being interrupted by a passing servant than anything else.

"W-what is the meaning of this?" he had demanded, struggling to catch his breath.

Alistair answered with a wicked smile and a familiar line:

"I like yer fire, boy," he rumbled, "but mind it doesnae bring ye more trouble than ye can handle."

Arthur flushed to think of the events that followed, the very same events that lead him to oversleep. He was surprised, though, because Alistair was just as lazy after sex and was usually content to laze about in bed for a good portion of the morning. This time, however, he'd risen before the attendant and had done so quietly enough that Arthur had not stirred.

The youth rose slowly from the bed and made no effort to stifle a loud yawn. He retrieved his clothes from the floor where they'd been hastily shed – a little bitter that the lord couldn't even be bothered to pick them up before he left that morning. He washed and dressed and was en route to the dining room in no time at all.

He was not expecting to find Michelle there instead, cheerfully dusting the late Lady Graham and humming to herself quietly.

"Michelle?"

"Oh! Good morning, Arthur!" The girl smiled brightly at the attendant and tucked into a quick curtsey.

"Don't do that, Michelle, I'm not nobility," he didn't pause to think on the lie, "have you seen Alistair?"

The girl shrugged and returned to her work as she spoke.

"Not today, no, but I'm sure Steven has – he was all worked up earlier 'bout having to get the horses ready."

"Horses?" echoed the blonde, narrowing his eyes, "Why? Was Alistair leaving?"

Again, the girl shrugged.

"I dunno, it's not really my job to keep track of him." She stopped for a moment, then turned her smile on Arthur. "Though now that I think on it, it kinda is _your_ job. Why are you asking me when you should know?

The Brit huffed and quietly admitted to oversleeping. Michelle tittered, marvelling that he hadn't been bound to the gate or thrown in the well for his negligence. Arthur rolled his eyes and left the girl to her cleaning, instead heading to the stables.

It was there that he found Alfred rolling about in a stack of hay.

"You'll get ticks," Arthur scolded, wrinkling his nose as the child just laughed and threw a fistful of straw at him. Steven poked his head over the top of a horse in its corral, waving a brush.

"Oi, Artie!"

"Steven," the attendant dipped his head.

"What brings you 'round here, mate? I would'a thought you'd be off with Laird Alistair today." The man returned to brushing the large beast in long, even strokes.

"No, actually, I came to ask where he'd gone?"

The tanned brunet laughed,

"You dunno? Careful, mate, that might be grounds to have you replaced!" Arthur stood and waited somewhat impatiently for the man to stop chuckling and answer the question. It took longer than he would've liked. "Anyways, he's gone down to Perthshire for the day, gonna be negotiating some o' the more delicate details o' their truce wit' Lord Duff and Lady Ariel, I'm thinkin'."

Well, that explained why Arthur was not brought along.

"Any idea when he'll be back?"

"Dunno, Art. Might be sunset, might be tomorra morn'. Depends on how long it takes."

Arthur hummed thoughtfully, bobbing his head in a small nod. Alfred jumped to his feet and shook the hay from his clothes before grabbing onto the Brit's arm.

"Hey, Artie, does this mean you have the day off?"

"Well, not exactly, I still-"

"But your job is to look after Allie, and he's not here!"

"Yes, but that's not my only job."

The boy looked disappointed.

"Why does it matter?"

"I want you to teach me how to fight!"

Steven chuckled from where he sat on a wooden block and began fitting the horse he'd groomed with new horseshoes. Alfred didn't notice the laughter and shook his friend's arm desperately.

"Why me? I'd imagine Steven might be better at teaching you to throw a fist," Arthur mused, "or even Alistair, if you can catch him in the right mood."

But the boy shook his head, his blue eyes wide with hope as he just kept staring at the Brit.

"It's gotta be you!" he said "I wanna learn how to use a sword like you do!"

"A-a sword? Whyever would you want to learn that? ...And furthermore, why me?"

"'Cause I see you fight in the yard with Allie all the time, duh!" Alfred rolled his eyes and huffed as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Y'see, I'm still kinda small right now, right?"

"Well...yes."

"And you're kinda small too."

At this, Arthur bristled.

"Not that small!"

"You're pretty small, mate,"

"Shut your gob, Steven."

"And I seen how sometimes you do pretty well when you fight Allie, even though he's bigger than you." Arthur really wasn't sure whether he should be grateful or offended. "So if I learn to fight like you, then I'll know how to take on guys who are bigger than me, and then when I'm all grown and big, I'll know what to watch out for!"

Steven was laughing again, but Alfred was being serious. He looked up to the blonde with eyes like saucers, waiting for the answer he wanted to hear. And under that hopeful stare, Arthur couldn't help but to cave.

* * *

He spent a better part of the day under the hot sun with Alfred, who really wasn't looking for much instruction and just wanted to swing the practice sword around like a real warrior. His strikes were slow and sloppy and easy to block, and when Arthur tried to give him a tip the boy made noises over him and insisted he'd figure it out on his own. He asked the Englishman to fight at his best and not hold back.

But he did, and every time the little boy flew at him with a devilish grin and a warcry Arthur would calmly parry and push the child away.

"You're holding back!" Alfred had whined at one point, huffing and puffing, his face beet red.

"Of course I am," admitted Arthur easily, giving his sword an elegant flick, "you're a child, and you're only learning."

"Don't hold back!

"But-"

"Don't!"

Arthur sighed as the boy charged him again, sidestepping the sloppy stab and easily hooking his foot behind the boy's knees. He swept Alfred's legs out from underneath them and the boy toppled into the dirt with a cry.

Were it a real opponent, Arthur would've stepped on his wrist or kicked the sword from his hand. Instead he calmly backed away and let the boy curse and sputter and rise out of the dirt.

"Don't talk like that, Alfred, it's vulgar and rude."

"Allie does it!"

"All the more reason you shouldn't talk like that."

Alfred huffed, and Arthur began to wonder if this is what the Scotsman had felt like the first time he'd beaten the blonde Brit around the yard. Though Arthur liked to believe he was doing a lot more holding back with Alfred than Alistair had done for him.

Of course, Cait came looking for him when he had once again complied with the child's demands to 'stop holding back' and sat on Alfred's back, letting him kick and squirm as he tried to free himself. Admittedly, the boy was quite strong, but Arthur would carefully shift his weight whenever Alfred was about to get free and keep him pinned into the dirt.

"Arthur!" Caitlin's voice had him standing at attention in a heartbeat, but the Irish woman had already seen all she needed to. "Don't tell me you've taken to bullyin' Lil' Al?"

"Of course not," Arthur insisted, "he wanted me to teach him how to fight like a gentleman, but he kept trying to bludgeon me with his sword and then would complain that I was holding back. I was just obliging his requests to take him a little more seriously."

"Honestly, Arthur, when a _child_ tells you to do something, you can ignore him."

The Brit huffed and blushed, passing his sword to Alfred once he'd risen.

"Go put these away, my boy, I'm going to talk with Caitlin for a while."

For a moment, Arthur thought the little blonde would protest, but he smiled and obediently dragged the dulled weapons back to the armoury without complaint.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said to Caitlin, who shook her head with a look of minute disappointment.

"Boys," she sighed. Then, remembering what she came for, she pulled at the basket she had hooked over her arm. "I need to run into town for a while, there's some travelling traders setting up a bit of a market, I want to go take a look at what they've got. While I'm there, I'll have a chance to pick up some things for the kitchen and for Steven."

"Oh?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to come. I'll need someone t'help me carry the wares I bring back."

Not since his first attempt to escape had someone actually sought him out for a trip into town. It was why Arthur was happy to accept – even more so because it was Cait. They left Alfred in the stables with Steven, simultaneously picking up a list of things he needed brought up from the smithy, then the two were on their way down the hill. Arthur could see where horses and caravans had set up shop just by the town gates, and he felt his eyes lingering more on the carts than the doors to the countryside.

"Hey, Arthur." Cait drew his attention back to her when she called his name softly, the smile on her face somewhat melancholic. "You consider me a friend, aye?"

"Of course, love," he smiled at her – but he could hear by her tone that something was wrong. "Why?"

"Ah, well, it's nothing bad, really, I just..." She averted her eyes as they walked. "I'd like to talk to you about some things, if I may."

"Anything."

Arthur meant it. Caitlin had been his first friend here, his saviour when he needed it most and the support that kept him going at times he wasn't sure he could. She could have very well been preparing to ask him for his true identity, and Arthur wouldn't hesitate to answer – but only if she asked.

"I'd like to get somethings off my chest, is really all it is," she began, "I just want to know – are you happy here?"

He was prepared for a question like this, but that didn't mean he was any less humbled by it. He was given time to put thought into his answer and he did. He thought back on the rough and rocky and abusive road that had taken him to where he was – but he'd been made stronger for it, even he could see that. He'd come to care for Alistair and all his infuriating ways, just as he'd come to care for the people he'd worked beside.

"You know, at the start of all this, I really didn't think I ever would be," he admitted, "I hated Alistair and I missed England and my family. I really wasn't used to this kind of life, I guess I was kind of sheltered. All I could think about was somehow escaping and getting home."

Cait studied his smile as he spoke.

"Sometimes, I still do picture England and think about returning some day. I was born and raised there, after all." He turned his eyes up to the sky, "but honestly, I think I've been happier here than I have ever been in England."

"Would you say you've also hated it here more than you ever hated England?"

Arthur laughed, not bothering to lie.

"Of course. But what's come out of all this...I guess it almost makes it worth it." He stopped himself and rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck.

"Do you still hate Alistair?"

"There are times."

"But you love him, too."

Arthur flushed at the word, but managed to nod.

They were silent for a while as they walked together, taking their time to get down the hill. It was Arthur who spoke first, finally answering Caitlin's question as straightforwardly as possible.

"I'm happy here, yes."

The ginger lit up with a smile.

"I'm glad." She stopped all together and turned her gaze up to the clouds as well. The sky was a lovely blue. "Truth be told, for a while I was jealous of you."

Arthur stopped and stood at her side, laughing at this confession.

"Jealous? Why be jealous of me?"

"Well, for Alistair, mostly."

His laughter died on his lips and he was caught between hostility and guilt. He looked to her out of the corner of his eye, not sure how to react.

"Oh no, not quite like that, don't worry," she said quickly, "but..."

She swung her basket around to her front and sighed.

"He was there for me when I needed someone – after my Pa died. I was miserable and angry and all I wanted to do was see England burn."

Arthur didn't bother to hide his shock. He couldn't see Cait as anyone but the sweet-natured girl he'd come to know her as.

"Alistair took me in, gave me a home and kept me busy. He put up with me nagging him to contribute more to the war and stopped me before I did some stupid things..." She paused to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "He took me with him into battle once."

"He _what?!"_ Arthur sputtered, but his alarm was more or less ignored.

"Not into the actual fighting, and truthfully it was because I talked so much about it. He left me with a couple soldiers just outside of where the fightin' was happening, and the sounds of it all alone were terrifying enough...I was reminded of how I lost my father, and all I could think of was _what if there's another little girl in that mess."_

She frowned.

"And then I looked to one of the soldiers beside me, and realized that _he_ probably had a little one, too. All of those people...they had someone who cared about them, right?"

Arthur had to stop himself from going to comfort her when he saw a stray tear slip down her cheek. He knew now was not the time, he didn't want to interrupt the girl's story or distract her from her memories – she said herself that she needed to get this off her chest. She wiped at her face with her wrist and continued.

"I was a screamin', cryin' mess when Alistair came back for me. I thought that was all there was to that trip, but he grabbed my wrist and dragged me down into the battlefield and I _saw_ what the war had done. There were so many soldiers, wounded and then those not so lucky – someone had even set fire to some of the homes and the grasses had started burning." The girl's voice shook.

"A-after that, I never spoke o' the war to Alistair again. I hated him for putting me through that for a while, but I was also glad for it, and I came to understand Laird Graham just a little more, too. He is the one who leads those people to fight, the one who pushes them when they are scared and encourages them when they are angry. He lives through that chaos _every time_ he goes into battle."

There was a distant peal of laughter from a group of children, but neither the Brit nor the Irishwoman really heard it. Arthur thought vaguely on the terror of being chased through southern Scotland in a rickety carriage.

"But still he'd the mind to put me through that, just so I would understand. It was cruel, yes, but it was necessary, and that's sort of how that man operates. He will do whatever he believes needs to be done, no matter how cruelhearted it may be. Now, I don't work the same way at all, but once I'd figured all this out, I felt like I needed to repay him somehow."

"Repay him for traumatizing you?" Arthur scoffed.

"No, for jus' bein' there. For showing me what I needed to see, for givin' me a home and a chance at a new life. I don't think he even realizes how much he's helped me. But I wanted to be there for him when he needed someone – I wanted to repay a debt."

Cait then turned to Arthur and smiled.

"After what happened with James, I thought maybe I'd have the chance, but then you came along." She paused, searching the blonde's expression for something, then continued. "I'd never hit Alistair before like I did for you, and I was so angry with myself for doing it. Here this man had done so much for me and I had slapped him in the defence of an Englishman."

"If it comforts you, I've punched him plenty of times for far less."

The girl laughed.

"It does, a little, but I still didn't feel alright about it then. It was also after that when I began to see how just much you were growin' on him, and I was envious because I couldn't be there for him in the same way he was for me. I guess I felt cheated out of the opportunity to pay him back."

"You can have him back, if you want. He's kind of an arse."

The pair laughed together, just as they both knew Arthur wasn't serious – at least about the former part of his statement.

"No, things worked out better this way," she admitted, "I like to think I repaid my debt by helping to keep you from running off – and from helping you two deal with each other."

"You do handle us both marvellously," Arthur put a warm hand on her shoulder with the compliment and smiled, elated when the look was returned with a lovely smile of her own.

"It's a gift."

* * *

The town was full of life when the two finally made it into the square, the heavy conversation behind them. Caravans had been tucking into any small amount of space they could find and merchants stood before them peddling wares. The locals were out in force, with children darting across the clearing and couples walking hand-in-hand to browse.

Arthur was certain there had to even be some people present from surrounding smaller settlements or farming communities, because Arbroath was so much busier than it usually was.

The carts carried any number of things, from dresses to shoes to crops or tools, and merchants announced their wares over the bustle of the clearing. To see the sleepy little settlement so alive was uplifting, and Arthur found himself just as amazed by some of the products as Cait was beside him.

They split off from one another at some point, and Arthur wandered the market alone, browsing stalls and listening idly to the chatter of vendors and townsfolk. He didn't notice how close he'd gotten to the gates until a carriage rumbled through the opening and the driver yelled at him to get out of the way.

He watched as the merchant rattled by, only to feel his eyes drawn to where it had come from.

Because of the frequent traffic in and out of the city, the gates were left wide open. The pair of guards that generally kept a close watch on who they let into the town now chatted happily with some strangers, paying little mind to their posts. The sight of the open gate – and specifically, the rolling green of Scotland beyond it – made him pause.

In something of a daze, he drifted forwards.

He walked without fear right through the entrance, and when he stopped he was outside of Arbroath, solemnly staring out at the wide open fields. Something in the back of his mind whispered that England was still out there, that _now_ was the time where he'd gained the trust of Alistair and his staff. Because of that, he could walk out and make it quite a distance before anyone thought to look for him.

He knew now that a high concentration of English supporters were in Fife – enough so that they sheltered whatever English soldiers could make it there. He knew on horseback it wasn't too far, so on foot it would be maybe a few hours. He still had quite a bit of daylight left, odds were he could be over halfway to safety before the sun even began to set.

Arthur let his mind empty and he walked forward, his hands in his pockets. No one screamed at him or chased after him, there was no urgency in his stride or panic in his heart. He walked as anyone else would have, and no one spared him a second glance.

He walked for quite a while, recalling the last time he'd been on this road and how terrifying the whole ordeal had been. He had been breathless and wired and too scared of the man who would soon be on his heels to stop and relax.

How different it was now.

He walked calmly down the path until he came to a familiar series of mild hills. He smiled to himself as he climbed one, and sure enough from the top of the slope he could see the familiar wheat field, not yet harvested though he was sure it wouldn't be long before it was. The stalks were yellower and taller than he remembered. He probably could have hidden better in them now than he had months ago.

That is, assuming he didn't leave an obvious trail in his haste to flee.

After traversing the second hill, he approached the wooden fence that bordered the field. He stared at it for a while, trapped in a thoughtful silence. Eventually he let himself relax, taking a seat on the wooden barricade with his back to the stalks. He faced the path that would take him towards the English, but found his eyes drawn more to the fields of green behind it. There was a bit of a chill to the breeze, but the sun was warm and Arthur was not bothered.

He could have laughed at how easy it was for him to get here, considering the last time had been such a struggle. He could still clearly recall where he'd been dropped in the dirt by an angry Alistair, just as he could still remember the terror of watching the man tie the rope that bound him to his saddle. The memory was vivid and uncomfortable and he had no desire to linger on the bitter feelings it brought.

He focused instead on the picturesque hills of Scotland, on the quiet and the peace and the warmth of the sun. Out here it was so easy to forget that the kingdom was at war with England. This was mostly thanks to Alistair's firm belief in territorial boundaries and the right to govern his lands as he saw fit. Come to think of it, Alistair had not been to the Scottish-English front since he was there to ambush Arthur's carriage.

The memory of the event was still a sour one, and while Arthur may have forgiven Alistair for what had happened, he would never be able to forgive himself so easily. How callow he'd been then – a whining, snivelling and unapologetic mess while Alan had maintained his composure and done his very best to keep them both alive. He looked back on his past self with disgust, wondering how it was he'd ever thought it was okay to behave so cowardly and still call himself a noble.

He really had grown a lot since then. He had Alistair to thank for it, too – but not because the man had lead by example. No, Alistair had given him no other choice but to become tolerant, patient and level-headed. He'd given him so much that he had to stand up against, so much that he had to be brave in the face of. What would've terrified him in the spring would garner hostility now. No longer did he have to force himself to be defiant or brave or brutally honest – it all came naturally.

The truth was he was glad for it, even if the process of his emotional maturing had been rocky and painful and harder than anything he'd ever had to do in the past. He truly was stronger for it all, and had no reservations about admitting it to himself.

At some point during his reminiscing, that voice in the back of his mind returned. It reminded him that he could keep going – get to Fife, return to England. He still had family there, after all, and he was still a _Kirkland,_ despite the name he used in the Graham Estate. That voice insisted that things could not carry on the way they were forever. Things had to change sooner or later.

He could take the initiative now and hasten the inevitable. He could leave Alistair behind and return home to the kingdom of England. He'd gotten this far on his own, without running in terror from those who hunted him, getting to Fife wouldn't be much harder.

He would be truly free, at long last, like he'd promised himself he would be all those months ago.

With a crestfallen smile, Arthur pushed himself to his feet and returned to the path.

* * *

"Welcome back."

Caitlin was waiting for him at the gate, her basket now full and the wares protected by a thin white cloth. She smiled warmly at him as he approached, and he was hesitant to return it.

"Thank you."

"Did you have a nice walk?"

Arthur chuckled, looking over his shoulder to the wide open spaces. It hadn't been one of the most relaxing walks, but it could have been much worse – the fact that he wasn't still out there was evidence of that. He faced the Irishwoman and nodded, his expression somewhat demure.

"I'm surprised you didn't think I was running off again," he mused, watching the girl's smile falter slightly. She shrugged, then motioned for him to follow and they walked side by side back into Arbroath.

"I believed you when you said you were happy," Cait admitted, and the strength to her smile had returned. "I watched you leave, but I knew you'd come back."

Arthur didn't want to ask her what would've happened if he didn't – if he had decided to continue the way he was going. After all, as easy as it was to ignore out here in a relatively peaceful settlement, he was still a prince. He had duties and expectations to meet and it made him guilty to think that he was content to just fade out of history here.

_Is it truly so bad?_

Arthur still wasn't able to answer that. He doubted he ever would be.

"Well, thanks for believing in me," he said at last.

"Thanks for not proving me wrong," she countered.

They exchanged somewhat worried smiles, but wordlessly decided to no longer dwell on the matter. They gathered the remaining supplies from the smithy, and Cait stuffed as much as she could in her basket. Arthur was still left to carry a pair of saddles up the hill – doing his best not to complain about the strain or the weight or the uphill climb.

Halfway back to the castle, he heard a voice carry over the hill – projected from where merchants called out to one another as they shut down their stalls. He paused at the sound, tilting his head as he listened. It had been brief, but the sound of the echoing voice had struck a chord with him – it was familiar.

He narrowed his eyes and scanned the square. The people were distant, but part of him hoped he'd recognize someone regardless. Cait stopped climbing the path when she realized Arthur was no longer following her.

"Regrettin' your decision to come back?"

She smiled at him when Arthur turned to face her, and he understood that she spoke in good humour.

"No, I just..."

His eyes wandered back down to the square, lingering for a little while longer before he accepted that he recognized no one. With a sigh, he focused back on the Irish girl.

"Nevermind it. I'm still up in the clouds, I suppose."

Whether or not Caitlin really believed him, she grinned at him all the same and accepted his answer. She turned away and Arthur let his relaxed expression drop, casting a somewhat bitter look down to the psuedo-market. That voice, imagination or otherwise, only succeeded in reminding him that there were probably people still looking for him – people still putting hope in his return.

And while they hoped or worried or searched, he was somewhat happily finding bliss in ignorance. It made him feel guilty all over again, but he simply resigned to treat the feeling as he usually did.

He brushed it off, ignored it and carried on with his day, banishing it to the corner of his mind where it belonged, uncaring that it festered and grew more and more every time he did.

* * *

**Hullo!**

**Because of the nature of the next two chapters I will definitely be uploading another tomorrow morning. I struggled a lot with these two and am eager to just get them out of the way. There was a point where I absolutely loathed one thing and spliced them into two and then there was a bit of a panic that I hadn't done a good enough job so I basically ended up rewriting both probably two or three times. Just eughh. It's times like that where I miss having a beta.**

**But personal struggles aside, I want to thank all of you once again for your continued support. I'm pretty sure I responded to all the reviews again, though there were a few I could not (for varying reasons) and I want you all to know that I'm glad to have your input, even if I can't tell you so directly!**

**So please don't hesitate to review, I look forward to hearing from you.**

**Thanks so much for reading this far.**

**Until next time,**

**Ami.**


	13. Chapter 13

Alistair returned in the very early hours of the morning, and though his arrival was announced as per usual by the gatekeeper in a voice that carried over the grounds, Arthur did not go out to greet him. He was tired and quite happily absorbed in a book, reclined in the study in his usual chair. He still had the man's pipe in his pocket, but he was sure he'd be sought out before long and made no move to deliver it to him.

He was unaffected by the way the man stormed past the study at first – cursing and muttering angrily to himself. He heard a door slam, then open, then slam again.

Alistair was in one of his moods.

Probably more at ease with that then he should be, Arthur sipped nonchalantly at a glass of water before turning the page. Part of him wondered why the lord was so worked up, though he knew he'd figure it out in due time. He also wasn't particularly worried he'd be punished for not meeting the lord outside upon his return. Midnight had come and gone, and everyone else in the estate had turned in for the night – aside from the skeleton crew of guards that patrolled the walls.

Arthur had been restless and admittedly a little worried, it was why he sat up in the study reading instead of sleeping as the rest of the servants were.

The Scotsman did eventually storm into the study, but he passed Arthur without a word, throwing open his drawers with more force then necessary, swearing under his breath. The blonde withdrew the man's pipe and tobacco from his pocket and held it up without looking away from his book. The man stormed back out, grabbing the items as he passed.

He listened as the man stomped back down the hall.

The door slammed, opened, then slammed again, and Arthur shook his head. Was he just standing around slamming the door? It certainly sounded that way.

It was quiet for a while and Arthur found himself dozing in the chair. His intention was to reach a part in the writing where he could stop and head to bed, but he was so absorbed in the history that he just didn't want to put it down. It wasn't until his eyes began to droop shut of their own accord that he realized it would probably be best to call it a night.

But he was tired and lazy and didn't quite feel like moving just yet. He leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh, his muscles relaxing as his brain wound down.

He fell asleep in that chair, though not for very long. Alistair came storming back into the study and startled the boy back to a hazy consciousness.

"You're still awake?" he mumbled, rubbing at an eye as he pushed himself out of the chair. There was a kink in his spine and he twisted.

"Fuckin' Perthshire," Alistair growled, more to himself than the half-awake youth. "Bunch 'o bleedin' loons."

"Sounds like you had a-" Arthur paused to yawn, throwing his book back on the chair, "-excuse me. A fun time." Alistair answered by grumbling something, shuffling rapidly through the documents stacked neatly atop his desk. "Can't that wait until morning?"

He stood in silence, denied an answer. Arthur's patience wore out fast and he frowned, shook his head again and left the man to his business. He'd just passed the door to the lord's quarters – stumbling sleepily to his own room – when Alistair caught up with him.

"Where d'ye think yer goin'?" the man demanded, his grip tight on the lad's arm.

"To bed, stupid," he snapped, "it's late and I'm tired and you're grumpy and I don't want to deal with it."

In hindsight, perhaps speaking to an already irked Alistair in that dismissive tone of voice wasn't one of his brighter ideas. But at that moment he was given little time to regret his decisions or correct his mistake. The lord turned, towing him back towards his quarters with no room for argument. Arthur was thrown onto the mattress and the Scot settled over top of him with a huff.

In the commotion, the blonde had squeezed his eyes shut and braced for a roughhousing, so he was surprised when the man just pressed him into the mattress under his weight and was otherwise still and silent.

Generally, this was a more tolerable alternative to the anger, but Alistair was heavy, Arthur's arms were pinned under his chest and he was face-down into the pillow.

"Could you get off?" he grumbled, wiggling to try and free his arms.

"Apologize."

"Whatever for?" Arthur rolled his eyes, "you show up in one of your moods, storm around the place for a while, ignore me when I try and talk to you then get pissy when I want to sleep in my own bed for a change." He accented his point by squirming. "You're not always right, you know."

"Yer stayin' wi' me." Alistair's tone implied there was more to those words than he let on. "_This _is where ye sleep."

The man was curt and commanding, and Arthur was really too tired to be bothered by it. There was still the issue of the heavy Scot squashing the breath out of him though.

"Fine, fine. Whatever, we'll talk about this in the morning, but could you please just...move?"

"There is nothin' tae talk about in th' morn'. I'm telling ye how it is."

The blonde found himself wishing he _was_ better rested, because then he'd feel more equipped to handle this conversation and the childishly behaving Scot. He _was not_ fond of how Alistair seemed to think it was perfectly alright to make all the decisions for him.

"And I'm telling you to _get off._"

Arthur braced his arms underneath him and pushed with all his might. He'd obviously been underestimating his own strength, because he managed to pick himself up and roll the Scot off him. He'd been so convinced that they were leagues apart in physical strength.

He rolled away before the man could pounce again, but he rose only to his knees, facing a scowling Alistair on the mattress.

"What happened?" he demanded, and Alistair narrowed his eyes. "Don't you _dare_ play that game with me today, Alistair. Tell me what's going on or so help me _neither_ of us will get a wink of sleep tonight, I promise you."

"Nae."

"No?!"

"I donnae have tae tell ye _anythin'_."

For a moment, Arthur just stared in disbelief, his mouth hanging open. It took him a moment to remember how to shut it again, and after that he used his fatigue as a weapon. He was cold and to-the-point when he spoke, too tired to worry about the repercussions or how to best handle the Scot. He settled instead for a blunt, unapologetic honesty.

"You are incorrect," he said stiffly, "if you're going to behave this way and expect me to tolerate it, you _do_ need to tell me why, or at the very least be a tad less of a bloody _child_."

"Lad, you're treadin' a very-"

"I don't _care_ how much of a line I'm walking with you, Alistair." The man looked stunned at the fact that he'd been interrupted. "Because let's face it, one way or another at any given time at least _one _of us is walking a line they shouldn't be."

Arthur felt strong for the first time in a while, staring at the startled face of the Scotsman and savouring his speechlessness.

"Now I have been nothing but civil with you today and you stomp about being miserable and demand that _I _apologize." The former prince laughed bitterly, "_you,_ the man who couldn't say he was sorry if his life depended on it, expect me to apologize for _reacting." _Arthur paused only to breathe evenly. "I don't know what happened with you today in Perthshire, and if you are still too bitter about whatever-it-was then I get why you'd prefer not to share. But I _will not_ stand for being pushed around by you any more than necessary, I am _never_ going to be the kind of person that will let you – or anyone else – walk all over me just because they happen to be in a piss poor mood."

Arthur was immobile and unaffected as the Scottish lord watched him; his expression had transitioned from surprise to something Arthur couldn't quite place. He didn't worry that he'd said too much, or been too curt. It was too early to worry about those things, and Arthur was exhausted. He shouldn't have to deal with a man older than him behaving like a child on such little sleep.

After some time, the Scot exhaled slowly and lowered his stare.

"Stay with me," he said, and for the first time it didn't sound like a demand, it sounded like a question, further cemented by a rare display of politeness: "Please."

But Arthur had already been aggrieved once by this man tonight. He was not ready to play nice just yet.

"Why should I?"

For a moment, fury flashed in the Alistair's eyes, but it was gone in a heartbeat and he held his composure marvellously.

"Because -" he stopped himself, and the prince believed he might hear the man's first apology. The moment passed, and Alistair seemed to lapse into silence for a while as he reconsidered his words. Arthur waited, patient as he'd ever been, until finally the man seemed to unwind and he smiled lazily. "Ne'er change, lad," he said simply.

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows in disbelief and watched as Alistair shook his head and chuckled. He settled onto the mattress and turned his back to the blonde.

"I donnae want ye tae, but ye kin sleep in yer own bed, if that's what ye wish." He sounded humbled now, a drastic contrast to the hostile demands from only minutes before.

Arthur really did consider leaving, but he also found his mind wandering back to the moment where he stood by the wheat field earlier that day. He had stared in the direction of freedom and England and choose instead to turn his back to it. He justified it at the time by telling himself it wasn't a choice he was making permanently – just for the time being.

He hadn't left then, and though this sort of situation was on a much smaller scale in significance, he wasn't exactly planning to leave now. It was obvious that something was bothering Alistair, but just swallowing his anger and telling him about it was something the man had yet to master. He knew Alistair was looking for support and reassurance, but found it much easier to _demand_ it than ask for it.

_He cares dearly for you, even if he has a funny way of showing it._

It wasn't until he let out a long breath did he realize he'd been holding it. He shook his head though Alistair could not see it and settled down as well – mindful that he was far away from the Scot as he could get, practically hanging off the edge of the bed as his own minute form of rebellion.

"This is where I sleep, I suppose," he grumbled, though he really wasn't as irritated with his decision as he sounded – just as he wasn't really as annoyed as he pretended to be when the Scot was suddenly behind him, enveloping him in a warm embrace.

"Donnae ye ever change," the lord repeated fondly, speaking into the pouting blonde's hair.

"You're mental and your mood swings are out of control," Arthur did not receive a response. As expected, Alistair was a man who was incapable of apologizing in any traditional sense, but Arthur could still tell he'd accepted defeat. He was now soft-spoken and polite and gentle – all the things he usually was not – and Arthur knew that was his own, backwards way of expressing an apology.

_Still,_ Arthur thought as he relaxed and allowed his exhaustion to sink into his bones again, _it would be nice to actually hear him say the words._

* * *

Due to the fact that it had been quite the late night, Arthur was quite surprised that his mental alarm still kicked him awake just before dawn. He cursed the instinct internally, but he knew Alistair would likely be running on even less sleep than he; Alistair always waited for the blonde to sleep first. Arthur had theorized that Alistair still wasn't over his trust issues, which was understandable, albeit a little annoying. He had managed to convince the man to sleep without a weapon within arm's reach, but he couldn't seem to relax properly if someone else was still awake in the room.

Arthur began the act of unwrapping the Scot's arms from his torso as subtly as he could. As he did, he noted that Alistair no longer bolted awake when someone shifted him as he slept.

It was evidence that the man was improving, taking another small step in the right direction.

_Optimism,_ he noted, somewhat nostalgic.

He rolled out of bed and hurried off to wash and change – if Alistair was running on very few hours of sleep, he would be more irritable than usual. Arthur had to make sure he didn't set the man off unintentionally by throwing off the morning routine.

As he stepped out into the courtyard to catch up on any news, he noted that the carts were still set up in the square down the hill. He asked the self-proclaimed town crier why they hadn't left.

"Why sairr, donnae ye ken?"

"Not at all," Arthur said flatly, unaffected by the jolly man's good cheer.

"Th' traders come 'n go 'till th' end ay th' season."

"So they'll be here until winter?" Arthur grunted thoughtfully and the man nodded. He absently wondered if this was an annual thing, but didn't bother to ask. He instead got the news that there had been sightings of English soldiers at the Perthshire-Fife border again, but no one was making a move. And though he already knew, he was told the townsfolk were getting restless – wary of the frequent Disinherited territory upsets close to their county borders.

It was on his way back inside that he passed Cait, who was doing the rounds with a basket of rolls for the early-rising servants who'd already started the day's chores. She caught him by the arm when he nodded to her in greeting.

"I'll be goin' back down to the square later, I was wonderin' if you'd like to join me again?"

"If I can find the time, I'd love to."

Cait nodded and hurried off to feed hungry bellies, while Arthur continued to the study to fetch Alistair's pipe – abandoned on the desk from only hours previous. He wondered if the man had smoked at all last night, because the thing didn't appear to have been used for a while now.

He returned to the man's quarters minutes later, pausing to knock at the door and awaiting for the typical affirmative grunt that meant it was safe to enter.

It didn't come.

So he sighed and knocked again, louder.

Again, no response.

Irritated, Arthur kicked the door, swore, then let himself in anyways. He stopped at the sight of Alistair upright in his bed, heaving wildly with wide eyes on the blankets pooling around his lap. The blonde felt his annoyance fizzle away.

"Another nightmare?" he asked, and the man snapped his gaze up.

"How did ye-"

"You get them a lot," Arthur told him simply, approaching the beside table to place the tobacco and pipe. "Generally they don't wake you up, though."

"Generally they're not this bad," he mumbled, dragging a hand down his face and wiping away the sweat. With a loud huff, he collapsed back onto the bed and pressed his palms into his skull.

"May I ask what it was about?"

Alistair flicked his emerald stare to where Arthur stood, polite and patient. He seemed to weigh his options, then he sat back up and reached for his pipe. As expected, he did not speak again until after he'd taken a long drag of tobacco smoke and blew it up towards the ceiling. He instantly relaxed.

"You," he sighed. Arthur couldn't say he was surprised, but he definitely was curious.

"What did I do?"

The man regarded him carefully for a while.

"Ye fergot tae bring me my pipe in the morn'."

Arthur scowled, but he knew the lord was doing him a kindness. Instead of flat out telling him that _no_ it was not okay for him to ask that, he was playing the whole thing off and treating it as a joke. This was always a better alternative to a scolding. But Alistair still didn't know how to ask for support, and Arthur didn't even know where to start when it came to offering it.

He found himself wondering if the nightmare was really about him at all, and if it wasn't – what had scared the indomitable man to consciousness?

"Well then," he said, choosing to accept that the lord was going to dodge the questions he simply did not want to answer, "it's a good thing I didn't oversleep."

"Aye," agreed Alistair, nodding his head.

This was generally the time where Arthur would dismiss himself to go ensure Bella's kitchen was not on fire and that breakfast was well underway. Alistair had his pipe, and the morning conversation was slowing down to a temporary stop – no doubt to be revisited at breakfast while the man demonstrated poor table manners and babbled to pass the time. Out of habit, he ducked into a neat little bow before turning. Alistair stopped him when he snatched his wrist.

"Stay."

He was back to sounding like he was giving an order, but Arthur was able to forgive it this time. He didn't bother to argue, sighed and plopped down on the end of the bed, sitting cross legged and facing the man.

"Can I ask now what happened in Perthshire?"

The man grunted, puffing smoke out in little breaths as he decided on his response.

"I had tae meet wi' Laird Duff and his daughter."

"I heard. Did it not go well?"

Alistair shrugged.

"She's just as crazy as he is, I'll tell ye that."

"How so?" To Arthur's memory, the Lady Ariel had definitely been the more civil of the two.

Well, she's become enamoured wi' me an' her Da wants tae buy ye."

The former prince's heart jumped into his throat and he choked, triggering a series of coughs that Alistair only sat and tittered at mischievously.

"W-what?"

"Apparently, th' lass thinks I'm irresistible, that we were meant tae be 'n that th' things I said to her aft' everythin' meant that I really do care."

"That's not-"

"She just couldnae resist my charms, lad. I must have some sort of effect on blondes."

Alistair's grin turned mocking and Arthur kicked him, though it wasn't a very aggressive strike and Alistair barely felt it. After the Scot had gotten a handle on his self-satisfied chuckles, Arthur spoke again.

"That's not quite what had me so worried."

"What else is there?" Alistair was smiling, knowing full well _what else was there._

"Well, uh, let's see, m'lord–" Arthur's tone went from sarcastic to alarmed in an instant "-that _fat fuck_ wants to _buy me?_ Who the bloody hell does he think he is?"

The red-haired man shrugged, puffing on his pipe and looking far too amused with all of this.

"If I had tae guess, lad, I'd say he thinks he's a laird an' that yer a slae-bairn an' ye have a price."

Arthur scoffed, rolling his eyes. It took him a minute to register the words properly and when he did he snapped a glare to the elder man.

"I _don't_, correct?"

"Well, we did discuss-"

Arthur kicked him again.

"Lad, do ye truly _think_ I'd _ever_ sell ye?"

"As if I'd let you," Arthur snorted, trying hide the guilt he felt for even implying that Alistair might. Either way, he could only imagine what sort of things that disgusting human being had been thinking at the time. It made him tense up in discomfort.

"Aye lad, but I'm sure ye know that servants are like merchandise tae nobles, they can be bought or sold like anything else."

"I know that, I'm just still not used to being the one under negotiations." Now he knew just how degrading it felt to be treated as an object – and he hadn't even been involved in a sale of labour yet.

"I think he's still holdin' a grudge against ye, but there's little he can do if ye stay under my protection."

"I don't need you to protect me," the Brit grumbled. "I can very well look after myself."

"I know, Arthur."

Something in that tone made Arthur feel as if he was being a little too short with the red-headed lord. He averted his eyes, feeling guilty for the second time in that conversation. When he spoke again, he tried to keep his voice humble.

"What did you tell him?"

"That ye were nae fer sale. He wanted tae know why. He dinn't seem tae like it when I told him ye had a special place in my heart."

Arthur chuckled, glad for once to hear his words twisted by this man. Then he realized that he couldn't remember ever telling Alistair that he'd said those very same words to the lord in jest. He was unable to explain the smile that accompanied this thought.

"So was anything actually worthwhile accomplished at this meet?"

"We did arrange for a small exchange o' guards, as tae be represented in each county and to 'physically show our support.'"

Arthur made a face in thought.

"So you send soldiers to his lands-"

"To help wi' th' defence o' their border."

"-and he sends some to yours?"

"Young ones – ones tha' need to be trained up an' disciplined b'fore they see a battle."

The young man felt a twinge of unease at the thought of Lord Duff's soldiers lingering around the estate. He knew he was only being paranoid, and that the misdeeds of one leader did not speak for all those who followed him.

Not always, at least.

"They'll be arrivin' later today, just as I'm to send who I kin spare to them."

Arthur nodded again and realized that now he had at least somewhat more of an understanding of why Alistair had behaved the way he did. It was a little flattering, really, that the man had gotten so worked up because someone wanted to take his personal attendant from him, though that would never really excuse the temper tantrum. It also made Arthur wish he knew how the man thought, he wished he could read minds or understand better so that when Alistair kicked up a fuss, he didn't have to wait for an explanation later from him or someone else – he would just _know_.

They sat together for a while longer, and in that time Arthur shared what meagre news he'd collected from the crier at the gates and Alistair made fun of the English. The former English prince refused to let the man's teasing get to him, glad when the lord's stomach growled loudly and indicated that it was time to _get on with their day._

He accompanied Alistair throughout half of breakfast, then asked if the lord would mind being left alone while Arthur joined Caitlin for another trip to the market.

"Ach, I need a break from ye anyways," he had said with a dismissive wave of his hand, and Arthur wisely chose to take it as a joke. Otherwise he might have gotten defensive and pointed out that between the two of them, Alistair was the more moody and possessive – the one people more often need breaks from.

But he'd been dismissed an no matter the accompanying remark, he wasn't about to complain.

* * *

He caught Caitlin on her hands and knees out in the courtyard, pulling out weeds with a pair of thick leather gloves. When she spotted him, she lifted her head and smiled.

"I see you got away?"

She wiped at the sweat on her forehead, smearing dirt across her face as she did, but she wasn't bothered by it in the least. Arthur returned her friendly smile with one of his own.

"For the time being," he said, "I don't plan to linger here for very long in case he changes his mind, though."

The girl laughed and pulled her gloves off by the fingers. She pushed herself to her feet, brushing off her skirts and grimacing a little at the dust and dirt.

"I'm a total mess," she observed, "Give me a moment to wash up quickly, 'n we'll be on our way."

While Caitlin changed and scrubbed the dirt from her arms and face, Arthur stood outside in the mess hall and waited. He remembered his first time here, emotionally ruined and physically bruised, and was warmed with the memory of how kindly the Irish woman had treated him – how kindly she had always treated him.

He turned as she stepped back out into the hall, looking a little more put together than when she entered, but her attire was modest. Caitlin never dressed in very pricey, fancy clothes. Arthur was never sure if it was because she just didn't own any, or because she just wasn't the sort to wear them. She always stuck to simple, solid colours – greens and blues and whites, mostly – and never were her dresses too extravagant or complicated.

They were simple and sweet and so very much like the woman who wore them.

Cait smiled at him, crossing the room to where her basket sat on the ground by the door. She hooked it over her arm and twisted at the waist, motioning for the Englishman to follow.

"Alright, let's be off."

They crossed the courtyard together, and the gatekeeper had the gates pulled up before they'd drawn close enough to ask. They called back their thanks as they continued down the path and the gatekeeper waved to them from his post.

_See?_ That voice was back, quiet and hopeful and it made him uneasy. _Just like I'd hoped from the very beginning; I can come and go as I wish now._

He distracted himself by forcing a conversation, and if Cait noticed his discomfort, she pretended not to.

"What do you need today?" Arthur asked idly, though still wondered why the voice kept resurfacing.

"Today is more of a leisurely trip, really. I spent so much time gatherin' things for other people that I barely got to take a look at what they really had."

"So...you're shirking your duties to go shop?"

"Hush, Arthur, don't give it away," she laughed. "I s'ppose I am, but we all need a bit of a break now and again, yeah?" Arthur nodded the affirmative, distracted momentarily by a merchant projecting his voice over the distant buzz of the crowd. "Now don't you snitch on me to Alistair, or I'll be cross."

Arthur snorted, rolling his eyes.

"When have I ever snitched on anyone for disobeying Alistair. ...Furthermore, how often is it that I'm not the one disobeying?"

Caitlin laughed her lovely laugh and admitted he had a good point. The conversation faded out after time and they carried on down the hill in silence. As they descended along the path, Arthur couldn't help but to think back to their conversation yesterday. Obviously, he was not the only one.

"Arthur, about yesterday," the Irish girl began slowly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. When their eyes met, she looked guilty. "I may have been a bit bold, sharing all that with you at once. I'm sorry if I..." she hesitated, and Arthur looked to her, puzzled. "I'm sorry if I made you uneasy, or doubtful, in any way."

The British youth stared at Cait for quite a while, silent as he analysed the girl's tone and expression and words. He was inwardly pleased with how little time it took for him to come to an understanding.

Not long after her weighted confession and glimpse into her personal history with Lord Alistair, Arthur had wandered off into the countryside. Cait may have been being entirely honest when she said she trusted that he would return – but that did not mean she was without doubts. It was very possible that the woman had been nervous through it all, worried that she'd said too much and driven him to flee.

"No apologies necessary, love," his tone was quiet and he hoped she would hear the honesty in it. "You did nothing of the sort. I'm glad you told me. I felt honoured that you trusted me with everything you did."

"Really? You're sure I didn't...overburden you, or anything?"

She waited for Arthur's encouraging nod.

"Then I'm glad for it," she let out a long breath, "I just...If you have anything you ever need to...you know, get off your chest too, you can talk to me."

For a brief minute, Arthur thought to his royal heritage and England and telling this wonderful girl the truth. She was without a doubt one of his dearest friends, and he would trust the woman with anything.

But what Arthur dealt with wasn't really a matter of who he could trust. It was more a matter of how he could forget. Months ago he'd started accepting that he'd likely never see his home again, but it was not until recently that he had learned he needed to let go of his former title, too.

He wasn't a prince here, and if he intended to stay he could never be one. What was the point of bringing up old names or titles if he only wanted to move ahead? Those kinds of memories would tie him down to a past that made him feel guilty to remember. As much as he trusted the girl, he did not want to bring up what he was fighting to leave behind.

He was in the mind that perhaps if he ignored it for long enough, it would go away of its own accord.

"Thank you," he was honest when he spoke – mostly. "I will remember that."

She'd caught his hesitation – as he suspected she would – but thankfully did not dwell on it. She smiled at him cheerily and nodded, accepting as she always was. To soothe the unrest their conversation had kicked up, he shared some of the details of Alistair's temper tantrum the previous night. She listened patiently as his recollection became a little annoyed, then came to their lord's defence by reminding him of his own tantrum upon arriving in Arbroath.

But Arthur was not bitter at the reminder and they laughed at the memory. Once again, the former prince was left to gawk at just how far he'd come since then.

* * *

The town square was bustling with activity and sound when the duo reached the bottom of the hill. There were more merchants present now – though Arthur noted that some of the ones from yesterday were missing. They had likely moved on already.

The young man followed Caitlin as she drifted from cart to cart, peering over shoulders or through gaps between the crowds to catch a glimpse of whatever ware was on display Sometimes she even resorted to directly approaching the merchant – were he not already busy with others – to ask him about his trade.

It made the blonde smile to see how well the girl interacted with others. She wasn't just kind to him and those she knew – she was polite and warm to just about everyone she met. She had the kind of laugh that drew others to her, and a smile that was contagious. Arthur caught a few interested men giving the young lady a look when she passed, but she never reacted to the stares – if she even saw them.

She was too enthralled with the task at hand, too fascinated by the stories to be heard and skills to be demonstrated to worry about the stares of men, and Arthur admired her for it. The ladies of the court – as he could remember – would puff out their chests and paint their faces in attempt to be noticed by the lords and princes and nobility, because to the "upper-class society" you were as important as you looked and the women were valued more as trophies than people.

He could hardly imagine the kindly Caitlin as a trophy wife. She was far too _real_ to ever compare to those women, and he meant that in the best possible way.

They stopped at a caravan with a slew of curious wooden toys on display, and of course Cait wanted to see how each one worked and how they were crafted. She was rapt at the man's explanation and well-rehearsed demonstrations. When he'd showed off each and every piece, Caitlin shuffled around for some spare coppers.

"Connecting with your inner child?" Arthur asked curiously as the woman rummaged in the pockets of her dress.

"Ahaha, no, not today. But I do know one little boy who would absolutely love something new to play with."

Arthur understood, admiring her consideration and agreeing that yes, Alfred would be over the moon with excitement at a gift from the market. He would've loved to contribute, but Alistair didn't really pay him in the traditional sense. He was paid in food and shelter and for a long time – the opportunity to live another day.

Even if nowadays, things were a little different between Laird and attendant, he didn't really have a need for much wealth anymore anyways.

As the young woman counted the coins in the palm of her hand, Arthur heard a sound.

It was a voice, specifically, but something about that voice caught his attention. It sounded like the same one he had thought he'd heard the previous day and he turned, looking for the source of it in the crowd.

There were so many people.

"Stay here a moment, love, I'm just going to check something,"

Cait smiled at him, but wasn't quite paying attention. Arthur turned away nevertheless, straining to hear that voice in the cacophony of sound.

It was familiar, and the blonde found himself thinking absently to all the people of the Graham estate, trying to match it to one of the faces he'd come to recognize. He was confused when he could draw no memory, and even more confused when he recognized the accent as British.

It wasn't the strange-sounding and somewhat cockney drawl that Steven spoke in, or even the informal, easy-going tone that Alfred used. If anything, it was the closest Arthur had heard anyone sound to his own inflection – even if there were some key distinctions in the tone.

As if guided, he picked through the crowd to another cart, one displaying quilts and woollen garments. The merchant was bickering animatedly with a young man, and Arthur felt himself seize.

His brown hair was a shaggy mess atop his head, despite looking as though it had been recently combed through. He wore a tattered cloak of green over his shoulders, and when he moved his arms he could see the modest attire of a well-paid man. He looked decidedly well-off.

Arthur was frozen when the young man realized he was being stared at and turned, a pair of very bright green eyes zoning in on the paralysed blonde.

His expression changed, mirroring Arthur's almost perfectly.

"Prince Arthur?" he breathed, tuning out the confused questions of the merchant he'd been speaking with to cross the space between them. Arthur didn't move as the boy approached, and found himself looking down on the shorter youth, never without the expression of shock. The brunet reached forward, slowly pressing his hand into the centre of Arthur's chest, before furrowing his eyebrows with disbelief.

Then Arthur found his voice, but only enough of it to choke out a name.

"_Alan?"_

* * *

**Oh snickerdoodles.**

**So I got off work early yesterday and spent most of the day writing. As a result, I've pretty much finished. I just have to comb through it, edit it, flesh it all out a little and bam! First multi-chapter will be totally complete.**

**Also I'm sorry about cliffhangers. I'm going to this Cliffhangers Anonymous meeting, and hopefully I'll start taking the steps to recovery. I know I have a problem - I love them too much - I can admit to it. The hardest part is behind me, guys.**

**Thanks so much for all of your reviews. I did read each and every one of them, but because I am a slacker I may not have gotten around to answering them. It will be different with this one, because I have until Wednesday to answer them all!**

**So please, do not hesitate to tell me what you think/how you feel/yell at me, I look forward to hearing from you.**

**Until next time,**

**Ami.**


	14. Chapter 14

"Sire, you're alive!"

Arthur's breath left him when the other boy hit him with a fierce hug. His brain blanked and he couldn't remember how to speak, so he settled for nodding slowly over the brunet's shoulder, still looking lost when they pulled apart.

"It's been almost a year, m'lord! We assumed you'd been killed!"

Finally, some small part of him snapped back to attention and he fixed the shorter youth with a hard stare. Alan went to speak again, his eyes bright with excitement.

"Sire, I must tell you-"

"Shhh, Alan, please, don't address me like that." The blonde checked quickly over his shoulders, hoping no one from in or around the castle had heard the formal titles. Thankfully, it seemed like people were too involved in their own conversations and exchanges to take much notice in theirs. "Just Arthur is fine."

"But, sir-"

"Please," Arthur hissed, "just use my name."

Alan seemed to study him for a moment, then pursed his lips and nodded.

"Si- Arthur. I have so much to tell you!"

"And I'd love to hear it, but perhaps not here." Arthur glanced around at the crowd. Even though he was sure that no one was expressly listening to them, he couldn't take the chance that someone would overhear something they shouldn't. "Let's get out of the square and we'll talk somewhere quieter."

Alan nodded quickly, and Arthur let out a slow sigh of relief. He looked the brunet right in the eyes and spoke firmly.

"Just wait here a moment."

Arthur turned and picked his way through the crowd. He retreated back in the direction he'd come, looking for the familiar flash of green amidst the hues of browns and grays and blues. When he found it, he approached the little Irish woman from behind and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Arthur!" she beamed, "I was wondering where you'd run off to! Come now, you _must_ see this sculpture, it's come all the way from Italy!"

Cait turned to lead the young man away, stopped when Arthur grabbed her arm.

"Actually, I just forgot there was a list of things Alistair needed in his study. He'd be livid if he learned I'd forgotten and didn't fetch anything. I came to tell you I need to run back for it."

The Irishwoman blinked.

"Well, I'll come back with you to get it."

"No, there's no need for that. Enjoy the atmosphere! I'll find you when I get back and we'll walk home together, yeah?"

The woman seemed to think this over, biting her lip as if he was asking her to do something wrong. It took a moment, but eventually she found her smile again and nodded.

"Alright, I trust you."

Did she think he would try running again?

"Don't be too long! I'll likely need help carrying things back again."

Arthur promised he would return soon, and Cait waved him off. Satisfied enough with this hasty excuse, the Brit tucked himself back into the bustle of people. He retraced his steps once more, working through the crowd until he found Alan again.

When he did, he stood still and studied the boy for quite some time, still in disbelief that he was actually here – that he was alive. Part of him had expected to be stuck searching for a hallucination for the rest of the day.

"Everything alright?" Alan asked, glancing past the former prince.

"It's fine," the blonde shook his head to clear it. "Come on. We just need to get out of the crowd."

* * *

The pair found that once they had put the marketplace behind them, things in the town were quiet. It made sense enough, though. Most of the townspeople were in the square – gathered to see what treasures had been brought into their home.

Arthur lead his former attendant through the town, heading past the shops and pubs and towards the residential district. It was quietest there even on a normal day, and the boys found a stone bench to rest on.

"How are you, m'lord?" Alan asked once they'd settled, but he was too impatient to wait for an appropriate answer. He turned to the blonde and prodded him hesitantly – experimentally. When his finger poked into the flesh of his arm and Arthur scowled, the elder youth gave him an apologetic smile. "Sorry, sire, I'm in a bit of a shock to see you here. You're taller than I remember."

"Alan," Arthur protested, "use my name, please."

"Ah, my apologies, Arthur, it's just..." the young man paused and ran his eyes up and down his old friend. "How are you alive?"

"Frankly, I could ask you just the same. You were stabbed!"

"Ah, yes, well, that was a long time ago."

Arthur scoffed.

"It's still the last time I saw you. Obviously you survived, but how?"

Alan turned away, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his head. Slowly he lowered his hand and rested his palm over the middle of his chest, just below his ribs. It took the Brit a moment to realize that he was covering with his hand the place he'd been run through with a sword. He frowned at the memory.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

"Remember the driver of our carriage?" Alan asked. "He came looking for us. He found me, in your clothes, bleeding out on the earth. Thankfully he knew enough to keep me alive until he could get me to a doctor. It's a miracle, really, even I was expecting to perish."

Arthur thought back to the very last image he'd retained of his friend – the sight of Alan shifting, reaching out to him as the prince was whisked away on the back of a horse. At the time, the blonde had dismissed it as a hallucination. Now he began to think that maybe this wasn't the case.

"The last memory I have of you is..." the Welshman furrowed his dark brows in thought, "...I think...I saw you in the bushes when I fell...Everything after that is a haze until well after a very, very long stay at the doctor's." It was his turn to look confused, firing off questions one after another. "Why are you here? Did you get away? What happened to you?"

The former prince gave a dry laugh. There was no way he could answer that last one. Far too many things had happened to him over the past few months to summarize easily. But he did the best he could, sticking with the basics.

"I was discovered by Laird Alistair."

"Who?"

"The man who stabbed you. He..." Arthur trailed off as everything came rushing back. Just how was he supposed to share it all? Did he even want the boy to know everything? Certainly not, the more intimate details were obviously private, but how much should he tell his former attendant?

The blonde felt his eyes fall upon the shorter boy, who looked to him expectantly.

Alan had said it himself: it had been almost a year. Obviously they'd changed physically – Alan had filled out while Arthur had grown taller – but surely that wasn't the only thing to have changed. Was the young man who sat with him the same Alan from his past? Because Arthur knew for certain that he was not quite the same person the former attendant would remember serving.

Arthur's life outside of royalty had taught him humility and patience. It had also taught him that people were often more than who they seemed to be.

Once upon a time, he would've told the older boy everything; now he was wizened with secrets and experience. He knew he had to handle all of this with utmost care. After all, the life he'd finally grown used to was teetering in the balance.

"I was captured," he said simply, "I took your name, though, so everyone here knows me as Arthur Kendricks."

_Everyone except Alistair._

"I kept my identity as a prince secret, and I've been working for the lord since."

Alan's eyes were as big as dinner plates.

"_You, M'lord?_ _You_ are working as a _servant?!_"

"Alan!" Arthur hushed him desperately, "please! I've managed to keep my title a secret for this long and it's allowed me to keep my life, so _please_ do not call me anything but my name!"

The former attendant blanched at his mistake and nodded.

"A thousand pardons, Arthur, old habits die hard and whatnot."

The blonde let out a long breath, blowing hair out of his eyes as he did. Alan's spirit was not dampened by the error, and there was a lift to his voice when he spoke.

"But Arthur, this is great!" Arthur was confused, and it showed in the way he tilted his head and made a face. "Your mother and father – they've left you for dead! Your siblings, too, they all thought you'd perished in Scotland!"

_Dead?_

Had they truly given up on him so easily? For as long as it had felt to Arthur, it really hadn't even been a year.

"...How is that 'great?'" The former prince's tone was firm and curt and not at all as excited as Alan's was. The older boy drew back and raised an eyebrow at the sound of it, but he recovered quickly and pressed on.

"I can bring you home! I'm sure the that lord won't notice or care terribly if one of his servants goes missing."

_Oh he'll notice._

"I don't know if that's a good idea. I've tried running before." Arthur knew he didn't sound as defeated as he should have.

"You have? What happened?"

"I didn't make it," the Brit responded flatly, gesturing to their surroundings in testimony to the fact that _I am still here, after all._ "See, I'm not just another servant. Because I took your name, I introduced myself as _your_ attendant. Because I did _that_, Alistair took me on as his."

"Ah..." Alan nodded slowly and frowned. "I suppose that does complicate making a subtle escape." The young man brought a hand up to rub absently at his chin in thought, and it was then that Arthur noticed the shadow of stubble beginning to decorate Alan's jaw. "It must have been awful," he mused, "serving that warlord."

The blonde shrugged and found himself echoing words that had once been spoken to him, a modest smile on his lips as he did.

"He's not so bad, once you get to know him."

There was resignation in his voice and Alan caught it. He raised an eyebrow again, studying the lax expression and trying to decipher that curious tone. He spoke slowly, watching his lord carefully for how he reacted.

"The same came be said for anyone, Arthur."

Arthur only grunted in agreement and the conversation fell slowly to a silence. Alan had undoubtedly returned to trying to think of a way around the prince's predicament, whereas Arthur was once more trying to decide whether or not he truly wanted to leave.

After all, he had only _just_ finished confessing to actually being happy here. This was his life now, however turbulent it was. Could he really so easily return to being a prince? Did he event want to?

Could he really so easily leave Alistair?

However, it was _England._ This was home and his own flesh and blood they spoke of. He could overlook that they'd given up on him and written him off as dead, because they were still his family and he still cared for them.

But he also cared for the family he had here – one not bound by blood, but by time and trust and laughter. Was England really worth leaving that all behind? He certainly couldn't live with one foot in each world, especially not with England and Scotland locked in a war that never seemed to want to end.

"Well, Arthur, there is something we can do."

Arthur did not answer, but he flicked his stare to the boy he'd spent much of his youth with. In the hesitation between them, he could not help but to notice more of how much the boy had changed. He was stockier than he remembered and his eyes sparkled with an ambition he never could recall seeing before. Was it new? Or had it always been there and Arthur had just never noticed it?

Alan lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned close.

"To tell you the truth, sire, I'm not here to trade."

Arthur didn't like the darkness in that tone, but he remained still and listened patiently.

"I am part of an elite raiding party, right out of Northern England. We've been quietly travelling north from Fife. We had heard that the Lord of Forfarshire had effectively halted any British advancements – disinherited or otherwise. The idea is that if we execute the Lord here in Arbroath – his stronghold – we can strike a blow to Scottish morale and start moving on Northern Scotland by the end of the month."

The prince maintained his expression as he stared down at the shorter man who spoke so eagerly of a battle. It was kind of distressing to hear that excitement – and not the concern for the innocents that battle would involve. Alan searched his lord's face for a reaction, confused that he could seem to find none. Arthur had learned to keep himself in check – especially when thinking negatively of a person – and it showed in how he kept composed. The Welshman prodded his lack of reaction.

"What's wrong?"

"It's just..." the youth fumbled for words, "you know the Lord of Forfarshire is Laird Alistair, correct?"

Alan stared for a moment, then nodded.

"I suppose I definitely do now, yes, but what of it?"

Arthur was at a loss for words. Just how would he explain this?

Then, quite suddenly, Alan smiled sadly and leaned back.

"Ah, you care for them."

"Them?"

"The servants, the people here, the lord himself – whichever it is, I can see it." The way Arthur lowered his gaze and looked away was a sure sign to the Welshman that he had hit his mark. "Arthur," his sympathy sounded strained. "This is your _home_, your _subjects _and your _family._ I know you've spent a lot of time here, but can Scotland truly replace all that? England is where you belong! You were born to lead, not to be at the beck and call of some lowly Scotsman."

Arthur kept his gaze on the ground, though some small part of him was laughing. He used to think the exact same thing. Exactly when had his opinion changed so dramatically?

_Probably when I started caring about the arse._

"Arthur – no – _Prince_ _Kirkland_, please hear me."

Reluctantly, the blonde looked to the Welshman from the corner of his eyes.

"Do you not miss it? England? Your old life? Have you truly forgotten all of us?"

"Of course not," Arthur snapped, "I love my home."

"Then _stand_ for it, or at the very least, _return_ to it," he begged, "It kills me to know English royalty is wasting away here serving Scottish _barbarians._"

Arthur stiffened at the derogatory word. Alan was right about one thing – Arthur was a prince. It was time to handle himself as such.

"It's not so simple," he began. His voice was strong and level and out of habit, Alan sat just a little straighter. "Alistair has stopped any advancements into his territory or those north of him, but have you considered why he has not retaliated and marched South?"

"Well, to my understanding he _was_ quite involved in the Scottish loyalists in the not-too-distant past. He frequently commanded troops from the front, did he not? I may have not known his name, but I know his title."

Arthur was a little annoyed that the Welshman knew more of Alistair's military history than he did, but he did not linger on it.

"Yes, but when was the last time you had to deal with his presence in English territory?"

Alan frowned. They both knew he had no answer to give that would help his argument.

"Alright, Sire, then tell me why he has stopped his contributions? Why does he not turn on the English?"

The Brit let out a long sigh, recalling his outburst at the meeting. He didn't expect to be repeating himself so soon, and it came as a bit of a surprise that this time he reiterated to an English soldier, instead of a Scottish one.

"Because his people do not _want_ to fight. He protects his lands and those he is charged with, but does not impose on his fellow lords."

"If they do not wish to fight, then it would be an easy victory," Alan pointed out.

"Just because they do not want to does not mean they won't. But Forfarshire has become a haven for those pushed out of their homes by soldiers. Would you truly wish to drag innocents back into a fight they want nothing to do with?"

Alan narrowed his eyes, and it was that act that helped Arthur realize what had changed about his former friend.

"It is _war_ Arthur, it does not matter what the people _want – _much less the Scots. What matters is what is best for England, _your home,_ Prince Kirkland."

But Prince Kirkland simply smiled, internally correcting himself. Alan wasn't the one who had changed; Arthur was.

"Is war truly the best for anyone, Alan?"

The former attendant sighed and shook his head – not as an answer, but out of frustration.

"So you're saying...what? That we should not attack Arbroath because there are people here who are innocent? Who don't want to fight anymore?"

"I'm saying this war is pointless. What is going to be gained from this? One man and his fellows gain back the land they feel cheated out of? England expands her territory or Scotland cements her own?"

"That's not the point, sir, the point is-"

"No, that's exactly it," Arthur cut off the brunet, his voice firm. "This war is pointless, and you seek to continue it."

"Not _just_ me," Alan cried, exasperated. He threw his arms in the air. "Your _father _commands our armies_,_ Arthur. He believes this war is for the betterment of England, why don't you?"

The blonde frowned, but refused to let his family be used as a weapon against him. He hadn't really seen much of his father for years – and that was something Alistair had nothing to do with. His father was a busy man. He couldn't always dote on his children and warfare drove quite the wedge between parent and offspring.

"My father and I are two separate people. My opinion on this matter is my own and it is final."

"Arthur," Alan sighed, "the only way your "pointless war" will end is if there is a victor." The young man turned and propped his elbows against his thighs, burying his hands in his hair while he let out a frustrated groan. He sat like that for a few long minutes before he straightened out and began again. "There is to be an attack on Arbroath," he said plainly.

Arthur was not surprised by this, and he did not pretend to be. He had guessed as much from what he'd been told so far.

"With you on the inside, helping us, we can push through to the castle much faster, and this battle can be won with minimal casualties." Alan again sounded far too eager. It was quite the contrast to how Arthur had gotten used to hearing Laird Graham speak of the war. Alistair always sounded annoyed, tired and frustrated. "All you would have to do is meet us at the gates tomorrow night. Have them opened for us – our attack would be much quieter."

"Tomorrow night?"

"I am only here to preform the last sweep of the town. We want to get a good lay of the land before we strike. We have to look for the best route to the castle and scope out the enemy's defences in advance. I'm here to make sure nothing has changed drastically enough to alter our plan."

"_Tomorrow night?_" Arthur repeated as the full weight of the information sunk in. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again as he struggled for words. "How do you know I won't just go tell the Lord this?"

Alan looked appalled for only a moment.

"Because, _sire,_ you are a _Prince_ of _England_. You have a duty to the throne and your people. I suspect no amount of passed time can change _that_."

He hated the way Alan seemed to hold the whole 'being a prince' thing over his head as incentive to act. Arthur should be acting based on his beliefs as a _person_. Not _just_ as a prince. It was why his tone may have come across far colder than he intended.

"And if I cannot help you?"

Alan frowned as his the last reserves of his patience finally evaporated.

"We were planning on attacking without your help anyways, my lord, because we did not know of your presence here." The man rose, tossing his tattered cloak over his shoulder. "This is a pivotal step in bringing this war to a close, and I understand if for personal reasons, you cannot help us in the fight. But one way or another, when we finally take Arbroath, will you return home where you belong?"

The prince said nothing, staring up at Alan with a decidedly blank expression.

"You are free to make your choices, sire, that much I cannot take from you. I just hope when the time comes and a line is drawn that you are standing on the _correct_ side of it."

Somewhat stiffly, the brunet tucked into a bow.

"Until tomorrow, Prince Kirkland."

And he was gone.

* * *

Arthur sat alone on that bench for the longest time. For all his stubborn opinions when speaking with Alan, he couldn't deny that the elder youth did have a point. He had a duty to the people of England. To turn against them would be treason. He would be exiled.

He would be _exiled_ from his _homeland_. _His people_ would know him as a _traitor._ It would mar his family name and damage the reputations of his mother and father and siblings.

How did he ever believe he could ignore all that?

It had to be now that Alan arrived with news of an ambush, of the planned execution of Alistair Graham. Part of him wanted to run and find the man and tell him everything – warn him of the attack so that he might better prepare for it. The other part longed for home and found some sense in Alan's words. He was an heir to the English throne. He carried the weight of his family name with him wherever he went. Did he truly think he belonged in Scotland? How much longer did he think his life could continue the way it was?

If he sided with the English, he would preserve his name in the eyes of the English people and in the eyes of his family. He would be hailed as a hero – an underdog that had returned from the dead to turn the tides against the Scots. He could return home and see his kin, return to his cushy lifestyle and live once again as royalty. He would be treated with respect again – by everyone he met and not just a select few. Never again would he be bent over a table by a drunk, filthy Scottish Laird and expected to _endure. _Nor would he be expected to cater to the whim of one irritable man against his will.

But staying with Alistair was the option that didn't make his heart ache so fiercely. It meant he could remain with Alfred and Cait and everyone else. It meant he wouldn't be expected to believe things because he was a _prince_, but because he was a _person_. His life wouldn't be flipped on its head once again; he wouldn't be made to start over a second time. He could stay where he was wanted and where hardly anyone loved him for the fact that he was royalty. They loved him because they knew him, they laughed with him and they lived with him. Who he was beyond 'Arthur' didn't matter. He was a friend and a brother in a different sort of family – one he loved just as much as he would an authentic one.

It was really a matter of who he could stand to disappoint: an entire kingdom of people who looked to his like as leaders, because he was a _Kirkland_ – or an estate full of those who loved _him_ because he was _Arthur._

"The gates are a wee bit down the hill from here, lad, I donnae think ye made it quite far enough."

Arthur was slow to bring himself out of his thoughts, blinking with the effort of it all. He rubbed at an eye, then looked up to where Alistair stood above him, an eyebrow raised curiously. His pipe was held between his lips. The moon was behind him and the stars were out, and it was then that the boy realized just how much time had passed.

"...O-oh?"

He shook his head to clear it of the stubborn fog and Alistair frowned. Perhaps he'd dozed off and just hadn't realized it?

"One o' your less dramatic attempts to escape, Arthur," the Scot mused, setting down on the bench beside him. The Brit felt warm when he heard his name.

Not _sir_ or _sire,_ _m'lord_ or _my prince_. Just Arthur. _Arthur._

"I wasn't trying to escape," said the youth with honesty. "I really was down here with Cait to check out the marke- Oh _fuck me." _Alistair snickered, but thankfully held his tongue. _"Cait_! I left her in the square alone!"

He rose quite suddenly to his feet, only to be tugged back down when Alistair grabbed his hand without looking and pulled. He plopped onto the bench with an _oomph._

"She's back home, lad, beside herself because she thought you'd run off again an' couldn't imagine why."

Arthur's gut twisted guiltily. He would have to prepare the ultimate apology for the Irishwoman. Then, the Brit looked to the man who leaned back on a hand and puffed nonchalantly on his pipe. Something occurred to him.

"Did you...think I had run off?"

The Scot shrugged.

"Nae, not really." He pulled the pipe from his lips and blew a haze into the sky. He looked at ease, and Arthur drew comfort from his calm. "But I cannae help tae wonder why ye sit alone in the dark on a bench."

"It was kind of a...weird day," Arthur admitted, resting his head in his hands and leaning forward. All the thoughts and doubts and conflicting feelings slowly trickled back.

"Aye? 'N what made it weird?"

There was another long exhale and then the smell of smoke tinted the air.

"Just..." Arthur's heart seized guiltily and he dodged the subject, only to question the instinct immediately afterwards. "...I got hit with a lot of memories, all at once. I guess I just sort of...shut down."

_Why am I lying?_

"Ye do that," Alistair mumbled, "what were you rememberin'?"

_Because I don't know what else to do._

"Home," the word slipped out before Arthur could give it thought, "...England," he corrected quietly, but the Scot was not angry.

"What about?"

Instead of answering, Arthur asked a question.

_Help me figure myself out._

"Am I letting my people down? I'm a bloody _Prince_ of _England_ and I'm here in the midst of a war and pretending it's not happening."

Alistair took a while to answer, and during that time the youth fidgeted with his hands in his lap. He didn't like appearing so insecure and unsure to the Scot, but he wasn't sure what else to do – who else to turn to. He was hoping that he could get some valuable advice from the lord without actually tipping him off to exactly what had happened that day – at least, not before Arthur was ready.

"Do ye feel like yer lettin' 'em down?" The man was watching the blonde from the corner of his eye, his mind racing behind the calculative stare.

"Not always, no. I mean, there's my father and brother before me in terms of the monarchy, and I...I get the feeling that for all the time I've been missing, it hasn't really impacted anything."

"Then what's with th' guilt?"

"I...I don't know." The former prince scrambled for an excuse. "I'm having one of those days..."

Alistair regarded the boy subtly for a little while longer, not without suspicion. He grunted as if agreeing to something, before switching his pipe to his opposite hand. He leaned close to the boy and gripped his jaw tightly. He turned the blonde's head and planted a firm kiss.

Arthur pushed him away quickly and flushed.

"Someone will see, you _twit," _he hissed. Alistair raised a red eyebrow.

"And?"

"I'd rather not be lynched, thank you."

But Alistair didn't think this a good enough reason to abstain and kissed him again. Arthur was caught trying to struggle quietly against the firm hold, not entirely unwilling but knowing now was not the time or the place – but if he kicked up a fuss, he'd definitely draw attention to them.

Eventually, his restrained protests were heard and Alistair pulled away, absently wiping the corner of his mouth with a thumb.

"You're insane," Arthur grumbled, tasting smoke on his tongue.

"I'm nae lettin' ye leave, Arthur, if that's what yer thinkin' 'bout."

Alistair's tone was firm.

"Well, no, not quite. But-" Arthur searched desperately for the right things to say. "Just...how long do you think this can go on?" he was waffling: redirecting questions that had been asked of him in hopes that someone else could provide an answer he could use. "This...whatever it is between us?"

Alistair put a hand on the blonde's thigh and leaned in close, looming in on the Brit and studying the blush on his face.

"What's got ye thinkin' it'll stop?" His tone was just a hair too close to a growl for Arthur's liking. This was too soon. He wasn't ready. He hadn't decided.

_Not now, please not yet._

"N-nothing in particular," he lied, "but you can't tell me you aren't worried that something will happen?"

Alistair stayed close, eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the youth's face. Arthur began to feel paranoid that somehow the Scotsman would just _know_ and it would be something in his expression that gave it away – no matter how hard he tried to mask it.

"Like what?"

Arthur didn't answer at first and became determined to distract the man from how dangerously close he was to hearing a terrified, thoughtless confession. He went with the most obvious distraction he had available to him: he closed the distance between them and kissed him hard. It was frantic and panicked and definitely not distracting in the sort of way he was hoping, but he didn't stop and he didn't pull away; not until his jaw hurt and he was close to tears again.

"Ye bin possessed, boy?" Alistair asked, raising an eyebrow as Arthur turned his head away quickly and covered his mouth. When he'd calmed his racing heart and reigned in the expression of fear, he shut his eyes and let out a shaky breath. He wasn't entirely dishonest when he spoke.

"I'm just scared," he breathed.

"_Och_ please," the Scot rolled his eyes, "I was gone fer a _day_ in _Perthshire_, ye gonna fret like a lass every time I leave?"

"Yes!" Arthur snapped, and the ferocity in his voice startled even himself. "As long as this goddamned war is in effect, _yes!_ I'm gonna bloody well worry every time you bloody leave and I can't help but to think of the things that could go wrong and what'll happen if you died or if I'm discovered and all of this-" he paused to gesture wildly between the two of them, then threw his hands up in the sky "-has to end!"

That was the core problem here – the war. Without it, things would be plainer and easier to deal with. He wouldn't feel torn in two as much as he did then. He wouldn't feel like he was betraying an entire kingdom every time he let the Scotsman too close – every time he let a supposed _enemy_ too close. His frustrations from the day's events bubbled over into something far worse and just as ugly.

Alistair began to laugh, but he'd barely even begun when Arthur punched him hard.

"_Don't you dare laugh at me!"_ he snarled, "don't you dare laugh at me for caring when I can barely stand it myself!"

In the wake of Arthur's outburst, the Scot fell quiet, his expression blank. The English youth wasn't about to apologize, as annoyed and hurt and conflicted as he was. He massaged at his knuckles with a scowl while the fire-haired lord cracked his jaw.

They sat in a tense silence and Arthur knew he'd gone a step too far. He was angry and scared and confused. He couldn't shake the feeling that the answer to all of this was obvious, but he was just too dense to see it – and struggling to grasp at a string he couldn't find was just giving him a headache. He felt stupid, and though the man's laughter didn't help that feeling, it still wasn't fair of him to take that out on Alistair.

The Scot broke the standoff when he spit blood into the dirt beside the bench and grimaced, bringing a hand to wipe at his mouth.

"Ye punch less like a woman each time," he noted, and Arthur was not fooled by the hushed tone – Alistair was furious. However, this anger was not like the man's usual battle-hungry rage. It was darker and colder and far more terrifying.

The funny thing was, Arthur had dealt with it before. He wasn't afraid as he knew he should have been. Though admittedly Arthur took no comfort in the way the lord banished the roughness of his brogue almost entirely.

"I have a question for ye, _boy,_" he ground out slowly, keeping his eyes on the air ahead of him. "How long are you going to loathe the act of loving me?"

The man was stone still, and as much as Arthur wanted to, he could not move away. They sat frozen, each for different reasons, in a silence that was steadily smothering the younger.

_'I have come to love ye, lad, and it's ruinin' me.'_

Those words fit them both so well.

Arthur was being torn in two: England standing expectantly on one side and Scotland beckoning from the other. He _wanted_ to stay with Alistair. He could live with losing his title – he hadn't been a prince for months now. He was satisfied with the way things were, and would be happy enough if they stayed that way.

But he felt an obligation to his family and his people. England was his home, his childhood and his inheritance. No matter how much he _wanted_ to, he found it too hard to just turn away and ignore it. Some small part of him would always chastise him for making the wrong choice. The selfish choice.

_Selfish. Oh you bloody fool._

Arthur had once called Alistair that, not too long ago, and Alistair had responded by calling him a hypocrite. He couldn't have been more right. With a long sigh, the youth buried his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said quietly, breaking the heavy silence with a tone of understanding. He felt himself smile sadly. "I've treated you unfairly."

Alistair chuckled, but the sound was hollow and dry. He had said the very same thing to the boy on the very same night he discovered the youth had a maturity and a sense of justice beyond his years.

"I'm selfish," the blonde admitted, "I am a selfish, entitled brat whose only true skill is the ability to take without giving back." Arthur would have thought he'd be fighting back tears, but instead he found himself calm. He was accepting. "How can I not be? Before Scotland, everything I'd needed or wanted was handed to me on a silver platter, and were it not to my liking I could merely kick up a fuss and see it changed. All of the harder decisions were made for me."

Arthur shifted to press his fingers into his temples.

"Even after all this time, I still think that way. I put myself before others, because it is all I've ever done. Caitlin, Steven, Alfred – even you. Especially you. You have all done so much for me, and I have hardly repaid anyone in kind."

His concerns thus far had been a touch too conceited. He had been so blinded by his own uncertainty that he hadn't taken the time to think about the thoughts or feelings of those around him, when those were the people that were affected the most by his choice.

If the English took Arbroath, whether or not Arthur helped them to victory, all his earlier concerns about the estate staff would undoubtedly become reality. They would be sold to the highest bidder, made to serve a new lord, told to adopt their way of life for one decidedly more English. And Alistair...

Arthur turned his head to look up at the man who sat beside him, watching with guarded emerald eyes.

Even if he survived the attack, it would break Alistair. For all his strength, Arthur knew the man had weaknesses. He was lonely and possessive and when he loved he loved fiercely – proud no matter what the circumstance. He had placed so much trust in Arthur, confessed to so much, thrown away riches and land, esteem and respect, all for his sake.

For Arthur to turn against him would belittle every one of those deeds.

It made him smile to think it, though it was a broken, guilty expression: this untouchable force of a man had a chink in his armour, and Arthur had become it. It made the prince feel _horrible_.

England was his home, his roots and his family.

But here had also become a home. He had a different kind of family here.

No matter the personal repercussions, he had to do what was right by the people he cared for. He could not live with himself if any of the people he'd come to love were hurt or killed and he had done nothing to prevent it. He could, however, live with the disapproval of his family. He could live with exile. Their lives did not hang in the balance of this impending battle.

"May I ask something, too?"

Alistair raised an eyebrow, but gave a curt nod. He looked like he hadn't decided whether he or not he was still angry.

"Why me?"

Silence.

"I mean, of all the people you know or have known or will meet; Why choose me?"

The silence just kept on. Arthur worried that he wouldn't get an answer, that this was the outburst that would see an end to the Scot's patience. He usually wasn't the one to flip-flop back and fourth between emotions, and obviously it was throwing them both off.

Eventually, the man turned his attention to his pipe. He turned it over and tapped it against the stone, content when no tobacco residue fluttered down from the chamber. He pocketed it afterwards and leaned back on his hands.

"I told ye it took me two weeks to figure out who ye really were, but even before that, I was suspicious. Most o' the time, I figured ye such a spoiled, whiny crybaby that I was sure you were nobility of some kind."

Arthur felt nothing as he watched the man's expression change.

"But there were times I doubted it...the times I saw the kind of person you really were beneath all that formality and complainin'; the kind of person you were outside of your obvious upbringing. Ye could be brave – cursing out me and my men while on the arse of a horse. Ye could be kind – wanting to take Cait's punishment for acting out. And ye could be considerate – bringin' me my pipe even after I had you bound to the gates, and still offering it after I'd pinned you under my blade."

The blonde felt himself chuckling at the memories – mostly because to him they were such small things and he didn't think Alistair was the type to be so sentimental.

"I admit, I even found it refreshing how ye could yell right back at me an' not care about the abuse or the threats, it was what made me hesitate using ye as a bargainin' chip in the first place. Never before had someone spoken to me so blatantly. I knew with you gone or our circumstances changed, I'd come to miss it."

He grinned,

"Things would've gotten boring again without ye around cursin' or complainin' or pickin' fights."

Arthur had no words with which to interrupt or respond to the tease. To his understanding, he'd been kept initially because of his status. At some point along the way, Alistair had grown fond of him and decided to hold off on using his unwitting hostage. Things had escalated from there.

_Obviously._

"It was eventually Francis tae confirm my suspicion of yer bloodline," Alistair continued. "But by then it was too late and I was already attached. It was also Francis to later point out that my attachment was more than just that."

The memory of the men bickering outside of Alistair's study rang through the boy's mind.

_'How dare ye! ...I am not weak!'_

_'I did not say that, frere. Why do you?'_

Francis had known before either of them were ready to admit it and Arthur couldn't say he was surprised.

"So I suppose, th' most direct way to answer your question, Arthur," the Scot summarized with a grin, "Who else could it be?"

Arthur was touched in just about the same regards as he was annoyed. Even when being sentimental, Alistair could manage to ruin whatever the moment with a rude remark or a mocking tone. He could admit to such embarrassing things while simultaneously insulting the object of his affections.

Even so, Arthur could not deny that for all he claimed to hate the man or be annoyed with this trait, it was one of the things he could love about him too. Above all else, Alistair was honest about how he felt and he had always been that way. Coming from a world where people pretended to like Arthur to get in good graces with his father, it was– as Alistair had said – refreshing.

He knew what he was going to do now. He would like to say that underneath it all, he'd always known how he was going to handle this. He just needed a push to get him started – a reminder that he was making the right choice, despite how both options could be considered the 'right' one, depending on where you looked at it from.

But he was not quite ready to ruin his feeling of contentment with bad news. It was another selfish deed, one Arthur justified by promising himself it would be his last.

Instead of talking, Arthur put his hand over the Scot's, hiding his blush with a bashful smile as he did. It was him to lean close and kiss the lord, chaste and innocent. It was Alistair who steadily turned to nature of the exchange to something wild and racy.

And for that time, Arthur didn't care where they were or who could see them. Alistair had been proud and unafraid from the very beginning, and Arthur had only ever pretended to hate him for it. Here he would draw on the lord's courage and pride to show him he was sorry:

He was sorry for ever even questioning what the right thing to do would be. Sorry for trying to downplay the way he felt with complaints and false loathing. Sorry for being selfish and conceited at all the worst times.

Most of all, he was sorry that he could never seem to understand the puzzle of a lord he'd grown to love.

He hoped Alistair would forgive his last selfish act, but this moment was just too warm to ruin with more talk of war. He would tell him first thing in the morning, and happily accept the consequences of his tardiness.

* * *

It was Alistair suddenly sitting upright in his bed that stirred Arthur. The blonde turned his head and looked back to the Scottish man, whose expression was one of deep concentration.

"What's wrong?"

The man didn't answer immediately, and Arthur cast his gaze out to the window, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He would've been up soon anyways, given that the sun was beginning to light up the sky with dawn, but Alistair usually slept later and did not wake gracefully.

"Wot th'bleedin'-" Alistair rolled out of bed quickly, collecting his pants from the floor and pulling them on as he walked around the bed to approach the window. Arthur wrinkled his nose, but held back from reminding the Scot that those clothes needed to be washed.

But the Scotsman didn't seem to care, grabbing his shirt from the bedpost as he passed. He hesitated by the window, glancing this way and that as if searching for something. He then turned and crossed the room again, pushing his way into the lavatory and leaving Arthur to wonder just what had gotten into him.

His mind wasn't completely awake when he went to dress – in clean clothes he'd set aside a previous day. It was why he was so startled when he heard a muffled _boom_ echo over the hills.

In the seconds following, the entire building shook and there was a terrific crash from somewhere down the hall.

Alistair burst out of the lavatory.

"I fuckin' _knew_ it!"

But he stopped dead at the sight of Arthur standing shocked in the middle of the room, his eyes wide and his mouth hidden behind his hands. He didn't flinch when Alistair stormed across the room and towards him, just as he didn't flinch at the sound of a second explosion.

"Never heard cannon fire before, lad?" Alistair sneered, waving his hand in front of the youth's wide eyes. That horrified expression turned up to him and he could clearly see the panic in those jade colours. He couldn't ignore his concern. "Ye alright, Arthur?"

"No..." the boy breathed, "They're...they're early."

Alistair felt his blood run cold.

"...What?"

But Arthur didn't hear the warning in that tone. He shook his head, and his mouth began to run in his panic.

"He said tomorrow _night._ I know it. He said tomorrow _night._ Why is he here now?" He pressed his hands into the side of his head. "It's morning...they're attacking in the morning...I should've known...Oh, what have I done?"

He looked up to where Alistair stared down, the understanding on his face vicious and cold and absolutely _enraged. _Everything froze for Arthur in unison with how everything clicked for Alistair.

"_You knew."_

* * *

**Awww he knew.  
(I'm going through a cliffhanger relapse, guys, I'm sorry.)**

**Happy Wednesday, everyone. **

**I'd like to thank all of you for your continued support and feedback - Guests included (I wish I could answer you guys, but I can't!) Not a day goes by where I'm not eagerly checking my inbox for a review notice. I'm even glad to get the e-mails telling me someone's favourited or is following, it sends me over the moon each and every time.**

**So please, do not hesitate to review - I read every one of them. I would not be as far along as I am were it not for all of you lovely people.**

**Thank you for reading this far, and I look forward to hearing from you,**

**Until next time (Saturday, probably)**

**Ami.**


	15. Chapter 15

Alistair caught the boy by the throat and pushed forward until he could slam Arthur's back into the solid stone of the wall.

"_Ye fucking knew!"_ he roared, angry and dangerous and barely in control. He brought his face close, watching Arthur's expression change from distress to pain when he tightened his grip.

If Arthur wanted to answer, there was no way he could have. The lord's angry, unforgiving grip was closing his throat completely. He couldn't breathe, let alone try and explain himself, and judging by the wild look in the Scot's eye, he wasn't entirely sure an explanation would really save him.

Alistair was swift and sharp and he had made sense of it all in seconds: why he'd been so uncharacteristically moody the previous night, why he'd abandoned Cait to reminisce, why he had been so hung up on England and his old life and what the new one meant really meant to the both of them. Everything had fit and suddenly he was seeing red.

_And why wouldn't he be?_

Arthur was pulled away and slammed into the wall a second time. An arch of pain shot through his spine and he cried out. However, he was drawn away from his own suffering when the lord suddenly pulled back, as if struck by the sound of the youth's voice. Arthur met his eyes only seconds before the man turned his head away.

Arthur felt guilt well up in his chest, and he hated himself like never before for his procrastination. A glimpse was all he needed to see the way the man's eyes had glazed over with pain, how his face had contorted so miserably. Alistair felt betrayed, and with good reason.

The Scottish lord took a few quick beats to compose himself, and when he looked back to the youth his eyes were like ice – the heartbreak was gone and there was fortitude in its place.

"Ye knew about this, lad?"

He no longer yelled, but his voice was quiet and cold and the anger was no less audible. The grip on his throat eased enough to allow him a strangled gasp of air and the brief freedom to speak.

"I-I spok-"

His airway closed and he made a choked sound. Alistair's eyes narrowed.

"Don't beat this 'round, _boy_. _Did ye know?"_

Gradually the pressure eased again, and after the former prince took another strangled breath in. His exhale was one, broken word.

"Yes."

Alistair swore. Whether he meant to or not, he increased the pressure and Arthur's lungs began to burn.

This time, he did not ease his grip, even when the youth began to squirm and jerk violently, trying to convey that _he would die_ if this kept up much longer. He clawed weakly at the man's arm with one hand while he tried to push him away with the other. Neither endeavour to escape was very successful, and Arthur began to worry that maybe Alistair wanted him dead.

His struggles died down as darkness began to creep into his peripheries. His entire body felt weak and drained, with the black in his vision slowly spreading inwards. Arthur wanted nothing more than to speak the words on his mind and felt his eyes begin to roll back in his head.

_Oh god I'm sorry._

_I should've said something sooner._

_I never meant for this to happen._

When his vision returned, he was a heap of useless limbs on the ground. He took a breath in and it caught in his throat. He coughed and wheezed and the sting of it all brought tears to his eyes.

He had been released, but Arthur couldn't decide if this was a good thing.

Alistair stood over him, watching as he choked and gasped and massaged at his throat in attempts to ease the pain of future bruises. The part of his mind that wasn't dedicated to speeding his recovery began to lay out how he would explain himself. How could he make this all better?

"_Ah shood've ken._"

The brogue in the man's voice was so thick, Arthur had troubles understanding it. He felt a hand clamp down over his head and pull harshly at his hair. He was yanked to his feet and pulled away from the wall.

"Alistair, please, just listen-" Arthur's voice was rasping, weak and ignored. He was dragged out of the room and through the halls, and the younger man knew exactly where they were going. "Please!"

As they passed the servant's wing, Cait stumbled out into the hall, her hair a wild mess of orange and her teal eyes wide.

"M'Laird!" she cried, then her eyes fell on the boy he towed along behind him. "Arthur? W-what's going on?"

"We hae a _traitor, _Caitlin."

Arthur twisted in time to see Cait's eyes widen, but whether from surprise or disbelief he couldn't be exactly sure. Alistair wasn't stopping, and the Irishwoman scurried after them.

"What do you mean? Is it the English? Here?"

The British youth tried to add his voice to the conversation, but his words only came out as strained whispers and his throat burned to work them through.

"Ask him!"

Alistair gave Arthur a good shake by the grip he had on his hair. He burst through a heavy wooden door and began to descend the steps down into the underground just as there came another muffled boom. The rumble that rolled through the castle seemed minute in comparison to the gravity of events unfolding in front of Arthur.

The former prince was dragged down the steps, the Scot not caring for how he cried out when he tripped or stumbled and had to endure the painful pull on his scalp. Alistair stormed down into the dank dungeons, past the only pair of lit torches and to the very end of the hall. He turned, opened an iron gate with one hand and threw the boy through it with his other.

Arthur stumbled inside, slipping on a wet stone and crashing into the floor, remembering just in time to catch himself on his hands. He recovered admirably quick and rolled in time to see the man slam the door shut and hear the lock click into place.

"Laird Alistair-" Cait began, and neither she nor the Scot she addressed paid any attention to the boy's haggard whisper, begging to be heard.

"_Caitlin._"

Alistair whirled and suddenly his dagger was out – flashing in the dim torchlight. He did not hold it to her in a threatening manner, but he held it at the ready nevertheless and glared.

"_Free heem, an' it will be th' lest 'hin ye ever dae."_

Cait withdrew like she'd been struck, and her retreat gave the man enough space to storm past her in an aggressive silence. They could hear the man's angry footsteps as he ascended, and his heavily accented voice carried down the hall as he roared for his soldiers to assemble.

After another distant rumble drowned out the last of Alistair's yells, Cait turned her wide eyes to Arthur, who picked himself off of the grubby floor, stifling his coughs and rubbing at his throat.

"What...What's going on?" she asked again, and Arthur's heart broke. She sounded absolutely terrified. He stumbled towards the bars of his cell, holding onto them support – unsure if his weakness came from his recent deprivation of oxygen or shock.

"The...The English...they're attacking."

The girl looked lost, her eyebrows arching upwards as her eyes began to gloss with tears.

"But what does that have to do with you?"

She was very obviously afraid of the answer. Arthur pressed his forehead into one of the bars and shut his eyes. She did not like his hesitance. "_Arthur_..." she squeaked, "please, please tell me you had nothing to do with this, please."

The Brit met her pleading stare.

"I have nothing to do with this attack," he said, some of the strength returning to his voice. Cait looked relieved for all of five seconds. "But I knew it was going to happen."

The Irish woman stepped back from the bars, covering her mouth with her hand. She shook her head slowly.

"It was at the market...I ran...I ran into an old friend...told me he was with a raiding party...planning an ambush," Arthur struggled to catch his breath while his heart still pounded away furiously in his chest. "I...I refused to help them...and I think he may have realized I was going to tell Alistair...it wasn't supposed to be until tonight."

Cait stopped backing away, but that was only because her back had come in contact with the bars of the cell opposite Arthur's.

"But if you told Alistair, why is he so angry? Why did he lock you up?"

Arthur lowered his head, hiding his shame behind a mess of blonde hair.

"...You hadn't told him yet."

"No."

The girl let out a long sigh and buried her face in her hands, shaking his head.

"Arthur, Arthur, Arthur..." she moaned. "Why?"

"I thought I'd have more time," he admitted sadly, "I didn't want to upset things yesterday...I thought I could tell him this morning."

Cait did not look up for some time, and Arthur began to worry he would lose everyone now. He reached out to her through the bars when he spoke.

"Please, Caitlin, believe me. I made a stupid, stupid mistake, but I did not want this. I was ready to turn on my countrymen for you – for all of you."

Cait shook her head again, and Arthur withdrew. He watched as the girl turned away. She rubbed at her eyes briefly, and when she pulled her hands away she was not crying. She set her mouth into a determined line and furrowed her brows. Without a word, she gathered her skirts up in her hands and hurried away, ignoring how Arthur called after her desperately – his voice breaking from the heartache at last.

* * *

It was absolute torture.

Arthur could do nothing locked in the dungeons. Nothing but press up against the bars and listen to the distant yells of soldiers. He would flinch at the occasional scream and pray he would not come to recognize any of them. He didn't know what was going on, but by the sounds of it they were as bad as he imagined.

For a while he'd stood at the bars, shaking the iron and yelling for someone to help him. He tore his throat raw, but that didn't stop his attempts to be heard. He continued to call out, even when his voice was only a raspy whisper in the dim.

He eventually had no other choice but to settle for sliding down against the bars into a sitting position, steadily banging the back of his skull against the metal.

He should have known better. He should have assumed Alan would get paranoid and rush the attack. After all, he'd made no effort to hide how much he had come to care for this town in their conversation, and he had even outright threatened to tell the lord without realizing what repercussions that would hold. Alan had gotten worried that their ambush would be ruined by his former prince, and wisely mobilized. Now Arthur was forced to listen to the sounds of a distant battle, the worried yells and screams of terror and rage.

He hadn't been lying to Cait, though. He had been – _and still was – _ready to fight against his countrymen for these people. But Alistair was too angry to give him a chance and he wasn't really sure he blamed anyone else for choosing not to trust him. He knew how this looked. The English attendant meets an English friend from his past, then suddenly English soldiers are attacking and that attendant admits to knowing it was going to happen.

And Alistair...Arthur shut his eyes to recall the look he'd caught a glimpse of.

He felt_ betrayed_ and in that moment Arthur had watched the man's heart break. He understood why, too. How perfectly this echoed the scandal with his last attendant. He'd trusted someone, let himself get close, let down his guard – only to have it all come back to bite him when that someone made the wrong choice.

Arthur had become that someone. He'd made the wrong choice – though he would tell himself that he'd made the _right_ choice too late. He felt wicked. He'd gotten the Scotsman to care about him, then abused the trust in exchange for a selfish act.

_Idiot_, he thought angrily to himself in unison with every time he banged his head against the bars.

_Idiot._

_Stupid._

_Untrustworthy._

He stopped when he began to feel a might dizzy, and in his pause he noticed something out-of-place in the cell.

A mirror, directly across from him.

Or at least, it had been once. Now it was a dusty, foggy piece of grubby glass that was missing large shards near the bottom. It made him raise an eyebrow, puzzled.

He'd spent an unpleasant night in the dungeon before. But then he was in the cell closest to the door – a cell far cleaner and far emptier than this one. This cell was mossy and damp and smelled funny.

And it had that mirror.

With little else to do, Arthur pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the bars to steady himself as the blood rushed through his head. When he felt confident enough in his balance, he slowly crossed the cell, feeling a chill settle over his shoulders as he approached the mirror. He swallowed hard, and his throat burned in protest.

He stopped in front of the glass and squinted at it. He lifted a finger to brush some of the dust away, but it was caked on. His reflection was blurred and distorted.

Arthur squinted at the strange artifact, leaning forward to try and scrape off some of the dirt when he felt something crunch under his shoe. There were glass shards on the floor, and in the dim light he could see the sharp pieces were covered in dried, rust-coloured blood.

The Brit's heart skipped a beat and chills skittered down his spine. He took a step back and a sharp breath in.

_This_ was the cell that Alistair had once locked his former attendant in. The mirror – for whatever reason it had been there in the first place – was what that man had used to kill himself. Arthur shivered, but banished his queasiness to crouch down and carefully lift up a sharp shard.

He wondered if Alistair had done this intentionally – if he was setting himself up for a repeat of history with some sick idea of proving himself right. Did he truly believe Arthur would be so bothered by the guilt of his actions that he would take his own life down here?

The blonde scoffed, his guilt momentarily transitioning into anger.

He was stronger than that. This mistake and the guilt it caused didn't make him want to get away in any regards. He wanted to be up there, fighting for his friends and surrogate family. He wanted to prove himself to those he had betrayed, wanted to make them see how sorry he was and hear them accept his apology. He wanted to explain himself.

Suicide was the coward's way out, and Arthur was no coward.

With renewed fire, he turned and began to yell again – calling for anyone to free him. It ruined his throat even more to do so, but he cared little about the pain. He would yell until his voice left him again, shaking the bars until his arms were sore, and even after that he would wait until the moment where he could resume his calls.

His voice was beginning to rasp once again after only a few moments, but his disappointment was snuffed all at once when he heard a door open nearby.

He fell silent, listening as that door shut quickly. He could hear muffled sobs.

"Hey!" he called, willing his voice to carry. "Is someone up there? I need help!"

His heart filled with hope as he heard quick footsteps begin to descend the stone steps, accompanied by quiet sniffles. He pressed his face to the bars to see who stepped into the light.

He could have cried when he recognized Alfred, holding a ring of metal to his chest. He was dirty and shaking but unharmed – his eyes wide as they found Arthur in the last cell on the left.

"A-Arthur!" his voice broke with the name and fresh tears began to cascade down his cheeks. He ran to the blonde and tried to hug him through the bars, but his arms were short and the obstacle was uncomfortable. Arthur settled for ruffling the child's hair and crouching down to his height.

"Alfred, are you alright?"

"There's so much fighting going on upstairs!" he exclaimed. "All these people – I don't know where they all came from. I-I wanted to fight too but Steve sent me away!"

"He was right to do so. Is Steven okay?"

"I-I don't know! He was fighting when I left him...there are so _many_ of them out there!"

"What of Alistair? Have you seen him? Is he alright?" Alfred shook his head, unable to answer Arthur's question.

"The last person I saw was Cait," he squeaked. The boy's eyes widened as he recalled the things he'd seen and he began to panic all over again. "I'm scared, Arthur!" he cried "everyone's gonna die!"

"No."

The child withdrew from the strength in the blonde's voice.

"They're not going to die. They're strong people, they'll be fine."

"B-but-"

"No buts, lad. Now, I need your help. Do you know where the keys to my cell are kept?"

Alfred looked away for a moment and held the little metal ring closer to his chest. It was then that he realized the metal ring held a set of iron keys. Arthur felt his spirits soar.

"You have them!"

But Alfred took a step back and the blonde paled.

"Alfred?"

"Cait said you knew the attack was going to happen."

_No, no, no. Not Alfred too._

The child seemed to have reigned in his fear and sadness and stared at Arthur expectantly. He furrowed his brow and held the keys tightly in his hand. The Brit let out a long sigh and leaned his head against the bars. He met the boy's stare evenly.

"I knew it was going to happen, yes," he admitted. There was no sense in lying. Thankfully, Alfred didn't recoil or glare or start crying. He stood patiently, more composed now than he ever had been before.

"How?"

"I met someone who I used to know – from England. He told me it was going to happen."

"Why didn't you tell Allie?"

"Because I made a very, very stupid mistake. I thought it could wait until morning and obviously it couldn't."

"But you _were_ going to tell him, right?"

Arthur stared the child dead in the eye, his expression serious.

"Alfred. I swear on my life that I wanted none of this to happen. I admit, I made a dumb error, but locked in here as I am, I can do nothing to fix it. I'm forced to listen to everyone fighting up there and I can't go help."

"Help us?"

"Of course. My loyalties lie with Alistair and with you."

Alfred searched his expression carefully, and Arthur never once looked away. It seemed like an eternity before the boy nodded and held out the keys.

"I believe you," he said, "everyone does stupid things."

Arthur sighed with relief, taking the keys from the child and turning towards the door. With shaking hands, he tried one key after the next, dismayed each time the lock wouldn't turn. Of course it was the very last key he tried to free him.

The first thing he did was sweep the child into a crushing hug, pulling away to hold his face tightly and kiss his forehead.

"Bless you, boy. How did you know I was down here? How did you get the keys?"

Alfred smiled, pushing away.

"Cait gave 'em to me. Told me to come talk to you."

Arthur's heart could have burst with relief. He hadn't lost Cait after all.

"Alright, I know one of the people attacking. We need to find him and figure out how to end all of this."

Alfred nodded in agreement and followed the Englishman as he jogged up the steps, shaking with adrenaline. Before Arthur could open the door, he felt a tug on the back of his shirt.

"Arthur?"

"What is it?"

"You're not gonna leave me behind, right? You won't tell me to go away?"

The child's eyes were wide and hopeful and afraid all at once. Arthur bent down to his height and stuck out his pinky finger.

"I won't leave you behind. You'll have to stay close to me, though, and if we run into trouble you gotta hide, okay?"

"Okay."

Alfred hooked the elder boy's pinky with his own and nodded, his face determined. The Brit paused to ruffle the child's hair, then turned to open the door at last.

* * *

Arthur couldn't decide if it was a good thing that the first body he almost tripped over was that of an English soldier. If they made it into the estate, that meant many of the servants would be hiding or fighting for their lives now. As worried as he was for them, he needed to find Alan. He needed to figure out who lead this attack and set things straight.

He frisked the body for weapons, slipping the man's dagger into his belt and carrying his sword with him – thankful he had the good fortune to find someone with a similar build to him. The weapons he carried were lightweight. Arthur wasn't sure he'd be as efficient with a broadsword or a claymore.

Well, he _knew_ he wouldn't be as efficient, but that wouldn't have stopped him.

"Come now, Alfred, stay close."

The two hurried down the hall, though Arthur stopped when he heard terrified voices, crying for help.

Without pausing to think on who or why or what, he ducked into the dining room. He was quiet when he did so, it was why the soldier inside didn't hear him enter. He had one of the servants bent over the table, muttering lewd things as he tried to shrug off his armour.

Arthur motioned for Alfred to stay put, putting a finger to his lips. Alfred nodded, and the Brit advanced slowly. The English soldier didn't hear Arthur until it was too late – distracted with the belt of his trousers as he was – and he cried out with the young man's blade stabbed through his chest.

The former prince cursed as he threw the soldier's weight to the side, knocking the corpse to the floor and freeing his blade from the marred flesh. The man sputtered and heaved as he choked on his own blood, but the blonde paid him little mind.

Which was well enough, because he was dead by the time Arthur recognized just who it was bent over the table, desperately trying to fix her dress and cover the parts where her skirts had been torn.

"Michelle?"

"Arthur!" The doe-eyed maid threw her arms around the blonde's neck and sobbed. "Thank goodness it's you!"

Arthur pushed the girl away and studied her.

"Did he hurt you? Are you okay?"

"Fine, fine. He was clumsy and you showed up just in time." Despite the relief in her voice, her eyes were still wild with fear. "What's going on? Where did these people come from?"

"They're English soldiers," Arthur explained, "they're here to execute Alistair."

Michelle didn't question how he knew this, and for that Arthur was glad.

"What should I do?"

The lad didn't hesitate. He threw the woman the keys he'd been carrying with him around his wrist.

"The dungeon, as dismal as it is, seems to be the safest place. Take anyone you can find and go barricade yourselves down there. Find a weapon if you can, but try to avoid any more soldiers."

"Naturally," the brunette nodded. She pecked Arthur quickly on the cheek and squeezed his hand in thanks before hurrying off. Arthur turned to the body of the soldier, grimacing as he kicked the man onto his back. He paid little attention to his face – it would be easier that way – and pulled the man's dagger from his sheath.

"Alfred," he called, and the boy came hurrying over. He passed the boy the little weapon. "In case something goes wrong, this is for you. You gotta protect yourself, okay?"

"Yes sir!"

After patting the boy quickly on the head, Arthur straightened out. He still had to find Alan, but part of him worried for Alistair. He knew the man was capable and could handle himself in a battle – he'd done it many times before – but Arthur wanted to be sure the Scot was alright. He found himself gravitating towards the study. That's where he could usually find the man, and it seemed as good a place as any to start.

* * *

Just before he turned into the hall, he heard angry shouts and repeated thumps. He poked his head carefully around the corner, narrowing his eyes at the sight of two English soldiers. One stood at the ready with his sword while the other tried to break down the door of the study with his shoulder. There were probably people who'd locked themselves inside for security.

The soldier who stood waiting had his back to the boys, and Arthur thanked his good luck.

He crept forward quietly. He knew most armies couldn't afford to armour all their soldiers in chain mail or plate metal, and that those garments were saved for the higher ranking officers. Most of them were stuck with small plates of tin or leather to protect their joints from arrows, while the rest of their body usually went unarmoured – layered with cloth, but otherwise unprotected.

It was why his blade, when thrust forward so suddenly, slid easily through the man's back. He cried out in pain, alerting his fellow to the subtle murder, but was thrown aside just the same.

The remaining soldier seemed surprised to see that the attacker was Arthur. He wasn't recognized as a prince, but he was still young, slight and dressed in Scottish colours and the garb of a servant.

So naturally, he was still an enemy.

The man whirled with a roar, bringing his sword down in an effort to cleave the youth's skull.

As he lifted his blade to parry, Arthur felt the months of fighting Alistair come rushing back. This man was slower than Alistair, and attacked with a rage that made it obvious he wasn't thinking his strikes through.

Arthur was a little surprised at how he automatically went to block a swing, or how he could tell by the way the man's body shifted where he was planning to strike next. Arthur blocked and parried until he found an opening – a wide swing in from the right. The soldier lifted his arms to pull back his sword and exposed his right flank and the British youth stepped forward and jammed his dagger between the man's ribs, angling the blade upwards.

He heard the soldier sputter as blood began to flood his lungs, and Arthur did not let him suffer. He yanked the dagger out and kicked the man's feet out from underneath him. He pounced on the prone victim and jammed that dagger into the unfortunate soldier's heart.

He came away panting and bloody. He was panting not from fatigue, but from the rush of battle and was proud to notice that none of the blood was his.

He'd composed himself in seconds and whirled. He banged his fist on the door.

"Hey! Let me in!" he called. The answer he received caught him off guard.

"Fuck off, _English scum!"_

Arthur flushed, a little angry and insulted, but he understood. Whoever was on the other side of the door could hear his very obviously English accent. He couldn't really fault them for reacting the way they did.

"It's Arthur! Who's in there?"

He heard the muffled voice say something in confusion, then the lock to the study clicked and opened just a hair. A wide, blue-green eye peeked through the opening and out to him.

He was hit with the force of a powerful hug when Cait threw open the study door.

"You're okay!"

Arthur smiled at the Irish girl as she pulled away, searching his body quickly for injuries. It was then that the Englishman noticed the girl was bleeding. There was a fine cut running from her right temple, across her cheek and over her lips. It ended at her chin, and the blood was smeared from where she'd wiped at the would. There was also a gash on her thigh – visible because she'd torn off the long skirts of her dress to something short and manageable.

"You're not, though. You're bleeding," Arthur pointed out. The woman brought a hand to her face to poke at the cut, then looked down to where her long, pale legs were exposed, battered and bruised and bloody.

"Oh this? This is hardly anything, lad, don't fret," she soothed, and there was a laughter in her eyes that Arthur found hard to ignore. "Those long skirts are horrid to fight in, and I've dealt with worse wounds than these."

"Fight?" Arthur echoed. He glanced over her shoulder to where two other servants huddled together behind Alistair's desk. Cait held a short sword in her hand and the blade was bloodstained.

"Oh lad, I'm not the type to be a damsel in distress," she laughed, "I'll have these English _dogs_ feel the wrath of fair Ireland's fury."

Arthur felt himself beaming.

"No offence intended, Arthur."

"None taken, Caitlin. Fair Ireland is lucky to have a warrior like you."

The woman patted him fondly on the cheek, then her eyes fell to Alfred, who stood in Arthur's shadow, clutching his dagger tightly.

"Oh, Al," she said. Arthur moved aside and the Irishwoman crouched down, pulling the wide-eyed boy into a hug. "I'm sorry for sending you away like that, I know it must have been terrifying."

"I wasn't scared," Alfred insisted, "I found Arthur, just like you told me to."

"I can see that. You did very well."

The girl fussed and worried over Alfred.

"Caitlin, I'm sorry."

The woman raised her eyes to study the blonde, who stared down sadly. She stood to his height, resting her hand on his shoulder and giving a light squeeze.

"I forgive you, Arthur, but I'm not the one you need to apologize to."

"I know. Where is he? Have you seen him lately?"

Cait shook her head. Alfred was looking from one adult to the next, not quite understanding what was going on here. Arthur swore, only to apologize for it immediately when the youngest of the three made a sound.

"I'd imagine he'd by fighting by the gates, as most of the English soldiers are out in the courtyard."

"Then that's where I'm going next."

Cait set her lips into a hard line and nodded. She looked back to the servants, then to Arthur.

"I'm coming with you," she said simply, and though there was no room for argument in her tone, Arthur still tried to protest.

"Absolutely not. Michelle is in the dungeons, hopefully with some other stragglers she picked up along the way. Barricade yourselves down there." His eyes drifted to the pair huddling behind the desk, speaking as much to them as he was to the Irishwoman. They nodded, hurrying out without needing to be told twice. Caitlin stubbornly lingered.

"Whatever happened to 'Fair Ireland's lucky to have a warrior like me?' Don't tell me that was just pointless flattery. I'll be cross." As if to accentuate her point, the woman turned her shortsword around in her palm. "Laird Alistair may need all the help he can get."

Arthur wanted to protest, but Alfred tugged subtly on his arm and shook his head. That little action was just more incentive – the blonde trusted Cait to be able to hold her own. After all, she'd been protecting the others and had obviously come out on top of her own recent scuffles.

Whether or not Arthur agreed with it, Caitlin was tagging along – read, storming out of the study and leading the way out into the courtyard. The boys hurried after her, only to push past the woman when she stood frozen just outside the front doors.

There were dozens of men scrambling in the courtyard. Their shouts and screams blended into one roar of chaos, the sounds of metal striking metal adding to the noise. Arthur felt hopeless when his eyes fell upon the mass. However was he supposed to find anyone in this mess?

Alfred gave a little roar of his own and charged forward, and before Arthur could react, Caitlin cried out in alarm and followed after him – going to defend the boy from a rogue swing while he charged blindly ahead. Arthur took longer to act, if only because he scanned the mass of people for a familiar face.

An Englishman fell in a heap at his feet, thrown there by a wild looking Steven. The man lifted his blade as if going to strike at Arthur until recognition flashed in those savage eyes and the hostility fizzled away.

"Oi, Artie, are ya jus' gonna stand there 'n gawk?" he scolded, but there was a fire in his eyes and a confidence in his grin before he turned around and caught the blade of another attacker. Arthur watched him for a few moments longer, surprised the stable boy could fight as well as he did.

But eventually he knew he could stall no more and began picking his way through the crowd. He did not actively engage anyone, but nevertheless had to parry rogue swings from warring men and be mindful not to get stuck with a blade when he wasn't paying attention.

One English soldier lashed out at him, recognizing his Scottish garb. When Arthur swore in his upper-class English dialect, the man gave a start.

"I...uhh...are you...?"

Arthur whacked him over the head with the flat of his blade, aiming a precise strike to his temple and the confused soldier crumpled to the ground. In a daze, he looked as if he was trying to push himself back to his feet. Arthur lifted his weapon, point down, aiming it at the man's head – then stabbed the blade into the earth in front of the soldier's face.

He froze all of his efforts to move.

"If you'd like to stay alive," Arthur advised smoothly, "I recommend staying down."

The soldier didn't move or speak and the young man took that as a good sign. He turned away and continued ducking and weaving through the mob of angry soldiers and guards and even a few servants Arthur recognized from around the castle.

The attack had caught the estate off guard, but that didn't mean anyone was any less prepared to fight for their home.

It was as he approached the gates that he saw someone he recognized. It was just a flash of dark hair in the crowd, but it drew his eyes and he headed straight for it.

After brutally shoving aside a Scottish guard that had gotten in his way, Arthur was left staring at a scene that stopped his heart completely.

In the midst of the chaos, the moment seemed all too calm. Alan stood under the stone archway and the raised gate, a soldier on either side of him. He held his sword out, the edge of his blade resting on the shoulder of a man on his knees.

That man had his hands arms bound behind his back, he bled from the chest but still struggled fiercely against the English soldiers that held him firmly and kept him on the ground. One of them put a hand in that wild red hair and forced the captive's head down.

Arthur couldn't summon words as his former attendant lined up a beheading blow and pulled his blade back. So instead of speaking, Arthur flew forward. He was an unstoppable force of adrenaline when he shoved one soldier out of the way and body checked Alan into the other. He whirled on instinct to block the blow from one of the soldiers holding the prisoner before kicking the man hard in the chest and sending him sprawling back.

The Scottish captive swiped out with a leg and tripped the remaining soldier and Arthur wasted no time booting the unfortunate man in the head. He stood panting over the red-haired Scot, unhinged and shaking and ready to fight.

"Forgive me," were all the words he could manage.

"Later," was the only word Alistair gave in response.

Arthur heard a man move behind him and he whirled, driving the sword through the soldier's ribs and shoving him back. He turned as another approached him, though this time his swing was blocked.

"Arthur, stop!" Alan was on the other side of the crossed blades, his eyes pleading. "Stop this, these are your fellows! We are not your enemy!"

There were so many things Arthur wanted to say in response to that, but he couldn't find the composure within him to grind them out into the open. The bottom line was that so long as the English attacked the people who called this estate home, they _were_ his enemies, even if they were also his countrymen – the subjects to his father.

Alan read the struggle in his lord's face and spoke again, hoping to talk some sense into the younger boy.

"This _has_ to happen. It's for the good of England."

Arthur had lied, earlier. Postponing his confession was not his last selfish act – turning against England was.

"Stand down, Alan," Arthur growled, and with this command came a sudden reminder. He knew what needed to be done. It would shatter the trust he'd already shaken with his friends, but it would save them.

"_Sire, I-"_ Alan whispered desperately, only to be cut off when Arthur spoke, louder.

"I _order_ you to stand down."

The soldiers closest to the pair paused at the authoritative voice, heads turning in confusion. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of orange hair, but he did not tear his gaze from the shorter boy. Alan looked hesitant, backing away while holding his sword at the ready still. Arthur let his sword arm drop.

"In the name of my father, King Edward the Third, I, _Prince_ Arthur Kirkland, _order_ you to lay down your arms."

Even before Alan had reacted, the surrounding soldiers began to spread the word and the distant clang of blades clashing slowly ground to a halt. The soldiers closest to them fidgeted, looking from the blonde who stood, regal and composed, to the short brunet who looked shaken and unsure.

"_Sire,_" Alan hissed, but the formality was heard and sparked another wave of shocked murmurs, "_please,_ don't make me do this. We are not the enemy!"

But Arthur was cold and stern and unforgiving.

"Did I stutter, Mister Kendricks?"

"M'lord, I-"

"_Did I stutter?_" Arthur pointed his bloody blade at the elder youth.

Alan squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced, but held his hands out to his sides and slowly placed his sword on the earth.

"Stand down," he called weakly, and he was answered immediately with unsure whispers. "He is blood of the king!" he exclaimed, louder, "stand down!"

Then there came the gradual clatter of metal as weapons were sheathed or dropped or thrown aside. The Scottish stood confused, keeping their arms at the ready. It was when Alan knelt in respect that something clicked – the soldiers were following the youth's example and many hit their knee in humility. He was not only just a part of the raid, he was _leading it._

Well, not anymore. Now Arthur lead it, using the name of his father to seize control.

He turned back to Alistair who still heaved for air, kneeling in the dirt. He'd freed his arms, but remained frozen in disbelief.

"Arthur," he hissed, "do ye ken what ye have done?"

And Arthur let his sadness show in a resigned smile.

"I've stopped this battle. Now, I aim for the war."

But they both knew that Arthur had done more than just that. He couldn't keep his authority and stay in Arbroath. He had assumed the mantle of leadership and he would have to maintain it, or he would be branded a tyrant and killed. He had raised an impassable wall between himself and Alistair.

Unable to look at the horror on the lord's face any longer, Arthur turned his head to study the crowd. His eyes honed in on that flash of orange – belonging predictably to Caitlin's unbound and unruly hair. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were wide. He was relieved to see that Alfred stood just behind her. He was unharmed and still, a look of awe on his face, whispering something to Steven, who shook his head with a grim frown.

His gaze drifted to the surrounding soldiers. Most of the English still bowed their heads or knelt, and the Scottish looked to the young attendant they had come to recognize with a new light. But none of them still fought and he could hear shouts echoing from around the courtyard to cease the fighting, a _prince of England_ had stopped the battle.

Arthur turned back to Alistair and smiled, but he knew it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I-"

"Arthur!"

"_Nae!_"

Whatever words he'd compiled for the lord died on his tongue, replaced by an anguished gasp. He felt a white-hot pain in his back, but he could not scream. His throat closed and his face contorted, unable to do much else as that pain began to spread in waves, his heart aching as the heat enveloped him. He hit his knees as the initial spot in his back went cold, his eyes on Alistair.

The man was screaming, his face twisted with rage, but Arthur could hear nothing beyond his own heartbeat, a thunderous noise in his ears that beat slower and slower with each passing second. The cold began to spread just as the heat had.

His back felt wet.

It was the last intelligible thought to cross his conscious mind before he shut his eyes and the cold took him completely, the thunder in his ears fading to a peaceful and painless silence.

* * *

**Oh god another? Forgive meeeee.  
Also forgive me for the fact that there will likely not be an update tomorrow, as I will be out and about all weekend.**

**Sidenotes, I dunno if any of you had already assumed as much, and I'm sure plenty of you did, but Cait is meant to be a personification of Northern Ireland. No, not Ireland. NORTHERN. There's a reason for that. Also when I save documents that have any more-than-one-word-title, I save them as acronyms. I have a folder dedicated to numbered JOY documents. It amuses me.**

**As per usual, I want to thank you all for your support and your feedback. I love hearing from all of you, and it's gotten to a point where if I don't see a certain name I've come to recognize, I worry. I worry that I've done something to disappoint or that someone's in trouble and then I fret. On the same note, I've gotten to speaking with a lot of you, and I can safely say I've never met a more pleasant bunch of people, so thank you!**

**Please, don't hesitate to review - be it a quick note, a long tangent or anything in between. I read every one of them and they are what keep me going.**

**Thanks so much for reading this far.**

**Until next time,**

**Ami.**


	16. Chapter 16

Alistair could not remember a time where he'd maintained such self control. He still tapped irritably at the wood of his desk, his expression was still sour and he couldn't quite banish the sneer from his voice when he spoke, but at least he hadn't launched into a violent tirade like he so very much wanted to.

The young man sitting across from him in a chair that _did not belong to him_ knew how much his very presence was grinding against the Scot's nerves, but he cared little for the man's feelings.

"I wish things had gone differently," he said quietly, and not without a bitter undertone.

"I wish ye were dead," Alistair fired back, slamming his fist down on his mahogany desk. "_Like ye should be_."

The boy with shaggy brown hair only shook his head and smiled, though the expression was decidedly sad. The last time they had met, he had introduced himself as Alan Kirkland. While they had not reintroduced themselves on formal grounds in any way, Alistair knew his true name to be Kendricks.

"Maybe had you done a better job..."

"_Would ye like me tae try again, bairn?"_

Alistair's voice was dark and dangerous and he gripped tightly at the arms of his chair to stop himself from strangling this boy right there in the study.

"Can't we be civil?" The Scot scoffed, and the youth sighed and shook his head. "However did he put up with you?"

Alistair had no answer to give, so he settled for glaring.

But the young man was resilient and unaffected by the man's hate-filled stare. He leaned back in his chair and itched absently at the stubble on his jaw. The men were silent in the study for a time, though each thought on similar matters. It was the younger of the two who broke the silence.

"The word has been sent back to England. There is a temporary armistice in effect for the realm of Forfarshire. Unfortunately, we cannot extend the same truce to your allies in Perthshire."

"Tha's fine by me. Let 'em burn."

Alan frowned at the Scot, but Alistair did not care. He continued to drum his fingers against his desk.

"There's just a matter of transporting the body..."

"_Donnae ye dare speak o' him that way."_

The brunet withdrew at the venom in that voice, chills running down his spine.

_How _did _you put up with him, my prince?_

"The matter still stands."

And stand it did – for a very long time in a very hostile silence. Alan learned that the man could hold quite the nasty grudge match, and if he wanted to get anywhere today he would have to keep pushing the conversation.

"We are at a standstill until this matter is resolved. He needs to be returned to English soil, and we cannot leave your lands until he is."

The lord scoffed, abolishing whatever English influence was lingering from his accent.

"Then ye kin lae when th' devil takes ye."

"Is that a threat?" Alan was deceptively calm.

"A promise."

The youth let out an exasperated sigh, massaging his temples with two fingers from each hand. He furrowed his brow and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Please, for his sake, can we at least pretend to be adults about this?"

Alistair said nothing. Alan just stared.

The laird and the attendant-turned-commander had met twice before under the same circumstances, but each time Alistair's short fuse and violent temper had seen Alan out before any of the matters he brought in to discuss were resolved. Were it exclusively his choice, Alan would resume the battle and take the estate to _force_ cooperation, and were it Alistair's, he would've run the boy through again a second time.

"Look, I know you don't like me, nor are you fond of the fact that I am here," said Alan. "But I think we owe it to him to try and see this through peacefully, yes?" The fire-haired man narrowed his eyes, but managed to hold his tongue. Alan chose to take this as a good sign. "Again, we cannot leave until he leaves with us, and though it is the last thing I want to do, we are prepared to break our truce if peace does not work out. You are technically holding a royal against his will."

Alistair made a sound in the back of his throat akin to a growl, but Alan kept talking.

"Obviously, we don't want to go against his wishes and restart what he had stopped, but unless something changes here, we have no other choice."

The youth fixed a thoughtful stare on the lord, and the elder man found himself staring right back.

"I can give you a month. By then, we will end the armistice."

"Then be ready fer war."

"I know you cared for him, it's obvious. And I pretty much grew up next to that boy, he's stingy with his affections, but I can tell when he is smitten. Whatever happened here, between you two, is the reason I have not already staged a second attack. He cared enough for this place or for the people or just for you to return home if it meant stopping this fight and your execution. I would like to see his sacrifice not be one made in vain."

Alistair again stayed silent, drawing up on the past memory of stabbing this boy. It helped to soothe his anger.

"A month, Lord Graham."

"_Laird,"_ the Scot corrected bitterly.

But Alan frowned, shook his head and rose.

"I will leave you in peace until then. You know where our camp is if anything changes." The young man dipped his head in a forced show of respect, pausing at the door despite the atmosphere of _get the fuck out._ "For what it's worth, I am sorry, but he belongs with his relatives and his people and _not _here."

He was gone before Alistair could respond with a nasty threat or an insult, and he listened to the Welshman's brisk stride as his footsteps faded down the hall. When he could hear him no longer, he buried his head in his hands and let out a long, controlled sigh.

"M'laird," a soft voice called from the door. Alistair did not look up.

"What is it, lass?"

Caitlin drifted forward.

"My apologies, Laird Alistair, I couldn't help but to overhear..."

The man grumbled from the desk, immobile.

"What will you do, if..." she trailed off, unable to rally the words that would fit best in this situation. "When the month is up?"

Would they really go to war for this?

"_Chan eil fhios agam."_

The Irishwoman frowned.

_I don't know._

Her heart ached for the man and she rounded the desk to stand beside him. She wrapped her arms around him and rested her chin atop his head. He did not cry or break or sob – he was too strong for that. But she knew he suffered nevertheless, because he did not dismiss her or push her away as he usually might have.

"Did ye know who he was, lass?" he asked quietly, his voice level.

"Not at all. Did you?"

"Aye. From nearly the very beginning."

Caitlin hummed in response, unable to bring herself to be surprised.

But the shock she'd felt when the young man had seized control of the battlefield by simply speaking a few words had been real enough. Part of her wanted to be hurt that she wasn't ever told – by Alistair or Arthur himself, but she had no desire to be so petty. It wasn't any of her business, and given how things had played out she realized it was probably for the best that the English prince had kept his identity secret.

English Prince.

It was still so weird to think of Arthur that way. Sure, he'd been a little cantankerous for a servant in the beginning – especially one who claimed to have once served royalty. But he'd fit quite naturally into the role as a personal attendant for Alistair, his initial inexperience had been easy to ignore.

Besides, she had always pictured English royalty as more snobbish, stuck-up and selfish. She couldn't see a prince laugh the way Arthur did, or dance as he had with the servants into the night, or read stories to Alfred in such a caring voice when he couldn't sleep. She could barely believe that an English prince had put up with their lord and taken the brunt of his temper for them.

Maybe because the reality was he hadn't been an English prince, to them he'd always just been Arthur.

She missed him fiercely already, and she knew that though the man would never say it aloud – Alistair did as well. Probably more than any of them ever would, or ever would truly understand.

* * *

Cait left him in peace for most of the afternoon, and saw the lord only briefly just as he was turning in for bed. He walked past his usual room, saying nothing to her as they passed in the hall. He instead went to the guest rooms. Specifically – she noted – the one Arthur had used for months.

* * *

His warning had come far too late. It had come after the Welshman had been brutally shoved aside, and after the assailant had jammed a blade in the prince's back and _twisted._

"_Albu gu brath!"_

The familiar words meant nothing to Alistair as he had watched the boy hit his knees. For a moment, the battlefield was silent, watching with horror as the Scottish lord scrambled forward to catch the young prince before he fell face first into the dirt. The boy's eyes became distant and his breathing had slowed, and in a fit of rage Alistair had abandoned him.

He flew instead at the man who gripped tightly at his dagger – the steel painted with royal blood – and in response, chaos erupted around him as soldier turned on soldier once again.

He was deaf to the war cries as he tackled that one man to the ground, crouching over top him and striking his face repeatedly. He saw only red, which is what drove him to strike the guard that tried to pull him off his victim. He was restrained again by a second man – both men dressed in _Scottish_ colours – who begged him to see that he was bludgeoning _one of his own._

It was then that Alistair looked down to the attacker, though his face was unrecognisable through the cuts and the swelling and the blood – he too wore the uniform of a Scotsman.

A Scottish soldier had stabbed the English Prince in an assassination attempt that had shaken the battlefield.

Alistair was on him in a heartbeat, and the danger that surrounded him stopped any more interference. He had demanded to know the man's name and just what he had thought he'd done. The beaten man had laughed, however, and spoken words that had ruined a treaty.

"_My laird told us tae watch out fer tha' boy,_" he had wheezed, _"told us nae tae hesitate if we saw a just reason tae end 'im."_

That laughter had turned maddened as the man spoke through tears and blood.

"_What better reason tae kill th' brat if nae fer the fact tha' he's 'n English Prince?" _His final breath was choked and haggard and drawn through blood and a swollen throat. "_Alba gu brath."_

Those words – words Alistair himself had spoken in the past – now seemed cold and cruel.

_Scotland forever._

He had returned, somewhat numb, to Arthur's side after that. He pushed Alan out of the way and took his place kneeling in the dirt, pulling the prince up and wrapping his arms around his waist to press his hands into the open gash on the boy's back. He had watched nauseous over the youth's shoulder as his blood seeped out from between his fingers, warm and thick.

It wasn't the first time he had someone bleeding out in his arms, but it was the first time he had felt so gutted while watching it happen.

The Kendricks boy had assumed the authority once more, getting a handle on the chaos and reinstating a shaky peace by ordering his men once more to _stand down._ Alistair in kind ordered his own men to cease, and he received no protest.

The English retreated, leaving only a small party of the more elite warriors behind to ensure their prince was not attacked again. But the extremist views of that one man were not shared by all. Arthur was very obviously good for the Scots – sympathetic enough for their cause to force a treaty. There were just as many Scottish ready to defend the boy who'd given so much for a chance to stop one battle.

But all his support meant little at that time, for mere support could do nothing to stop that boy's life from trickling away, leaking through Alistair's fingers no matter how desperate his efforts to stop it.

* * *

With three weeks left before the English returned, the Estate was finally graced with a flicker of hope.

Alistair had been seated at his study when little Alfred had burst quite suddenly into the room – startling the Scottish lord out of his thoughts. He almost went to yell and curse at the noisy intruder until he recognized that unruly blonde hair and those wide blue eyes.

"Allie!"

"Aye, lad?" Alistair blinked at him from over his desk.

But instead of answering, the boy zipped around the desk and grabbed the lord's arm. His tugs were urgent and Alistair rose, allowing the child to tow him out of the office and down the hall.

"What's goin' on?" he asked, not quite demanding yet.

Miraculously, the talkative boy held his tongue, tightening his grip on Alistair's arm. He was towed past his own quarters and to the first guest room on the opposite side of the hall. The man felt uneasy when the child hesitated, but followed him inside regardless.

The small room was still fairly bare and hadn't really changed in months. The only noticeable difference was the presence of a small chair beside the single bed, one Alistair had become quite familiar with.

There was a boy in that bed, a pale youth with sandy blonde hair and dark eyebrows.

It hurt to look at him most of the time and see how much _paler_ he had become and how his face seemed permanently frozen in an expression of pain. But this time when Alistair's eyes fell upon that prone, frail body, his heart lifted for the first time in quite a while.

Though they were glazed over, distant and dull, those jade eyes were open.

"Arthur?"

Alistair was at the boy's side in a heartbeat. He didn't answer, but kept staring up. The Scot leaned close, listening for the sounds of his breathing. They were short and faint.

"He's awake, Allie!" Alfred pointed out, smiling from ear to ear.

"I can see that, lad." Experimentally, the man waved his hand in front of the youth's eyes, and his heart skipped a beat when they blinked and slowly turned on him. Alistair went to speak, but his voice caught as he watched the blonde's expression contort in pain. A weak whine cut through the hush of the room and Alistair whirled on the child.

"Al, fetch th' doctor," he commanded. The boy wasted no time on words and took off to do as he was told.

* * *

The doctor – who had been ordered to stay on the grounds as long as Arthur needed medical attention – had shooed the Scottish lord out of the room after assessing that the boy was running a horrid fever. He had exclaimed something about having to re-treat the wound to combat an infection, but any of Alistair's questions or demands had been ignored. He couldn't exactly argue with or punish the man that so significantly impacted whether or not Arthur survived, and was left to pace outside the door.

At first, Alistair had nearly torn out his hair listening to Arthur's strangled cries of pain from beyond the door, unable to do more than pace and curse and pace some more. He wasn't at all comforted when the screaming stopped and he was left straining to hear the hushed murmurs exchanged between the medic and his assistant.

When the lanky man did finally open the door, he looked positively exhausted. He took one look at the lord's split knuckles – done when Alistair had punched a stone wall in frustration – and shook his head with a frown.

"I'm not treating that," he said flatly.

"Is he alright?"

The man squinted at Alistair, wrinkling his nose.

"No, he's not alright," he deadpanned, "I can't even begin to describe the amount of pain that boy is in when he's conscious."

"Can ye fix him?" Alistair was doing his best not to sound frantic.

"We can't do any more than we already are, m'lord. We've fixed what we can, but there's only so much that can be done for his infection – we can't exactly cut it out of his back, after all."

Alistair turned and began to pace again, clenching and unclenching his fists and feeling terribly helpless. The doctor stood as his assistant slipped out from the room behind him, carrying blood-soaked bandages and sheets. The lord paled at the sight of it.

"Will he live?"

His voice was strained with the effort of holding himself back and keeping calm.

The man sighed and shrugged, blissfully unaware of how his profession was one of the only things keeping _him_ alive.

"That's up to him, not us," he said, as if it were the simplest thing to say. "But I will tell you this:"

Alistair was rapt with attention.

"He has already survived the worst of it, and he's lucky his spine wasn't severed." The man massaged absently at the joints of his fingers as he spoke. "A lot of his suffering can be attributed to the fact that the infection and swelling is putting a lot of pressure on his spinal cord and nerves," he spoke so plainly, so calmly. It was a stark contrast to the fretting of the Scottish lord. "Truthfully, I've seen men larger than him succumb to less perilous wounds. He's got a lot of fire, that boy."

And the Lord of Forfarshire laughed, though the sound was joyless and strained.

"Donnae I know it."

* * *

Alistair spent much of the next week in Arthur's room. Caitlin stepped up to make sure that he took care of himself and handled what business she could around the estate – but Arbroath was quiet as its lord mourned and worried. The Scot ate his meals in that room, and more often than not passed out in the chair before he remembered to put himself to bed. He couldn't stand to be away from the suffering Brit for very long, afraid he'd miss a sign that the boy needed help in his absence.

The ticking time bomb that was Alan's raiding force was forever hanging over the Scot's head. He knew he couldn't send his people to war over this, as much as he wanted to, just as he knew that the journey back to England could very well kill the boy in the state he was. It was a miracle enough that he was still alive at all.

Arthur had initially assumed control of the English to assist the Scottish and stop the ambush cold, but that act had cost him dearly. In order to keep his command of the troops, he had to return to English soil – and whether he was alive or dead, Alan intended to see this formality through to the end. It was obvious that for all he respected the prince, the Kendricks man had already given up on him.

But Alistair was not quite so willing to write the boy off as doomed. He was still alive after so much pain, after a nasty infection and almost three weeks spent more or less unconscious, teetering on the border between life and death. As long as Arthur still breathed – no matter how faintly – Alistair would believe in his strength.

* * *

Alistair was reclined in the bedside chair when Arthur suddenly drew in a long breath, his eyelids slowly lifting to reveal the distant jade.

"Arthur?"

The boy winced at the sound. His face contorted in pain, and Alistair rose to go fetch the doctor, only to freeze at a faint voice.

"No."

He turned back to where the boy lay, those eyes fixed on him.

"Arthur?" Alistair's tone was hopeful.

"Stay," he breathed, and Alistair smiled. The boy shut his eyes and breathed deeply, furrowing his brows as the pain slowly melted from his face. The Scot settled back into the chair, watching the youth carefully. Those eyes opened once more, and sought him out. "I'm so sorry," he said, his voice stronger than it had been in weeks.

"It's alright," he said softly, "live through this, an' you're forgiven."

* * *

It was days before the boy awoke again, and all the while he slept fitfully, his face twisting into expressions of fear and pain and distress and Alistair could do nothing about it.

In contrast, Alistair barely slept, perched in that chair and as worried as he was. Caitlin did not scold him for it, and brought him his breakfast every morning without a word of protest – knowing full well the man would not be away from Arthur long enough to eat a meal in the dining room.

Michelle had worried aloud that their lord was losing his mind – that he would waste away at the prince's side. Cait knew better, though. She knew it was the Scot's strength that kept him so close to Arthur. It would be all too easy to shut the whole situation out and carry on as if nothing were amiss. But he was not the type to pretend everything was okay when it was _not. _She also knew that Alistair felt responsible for the Brit, and for that reason he kept a vigil.

In addition, Arthur's brief bout of consciousness had renewed his hope. He wasn't about to let another moment slip by him if it could be helped. He was determined to be present when the youth awoke again.

His determination and emotional strength paid off four days after Arthur's tenuous apology.

"You're still here?"

Alistair lifted his head off the boy's mattress, having put his head down to doze and listen to the short breaths of the wounded youth. He pinched the bridge of his nose and banished his drowsiness at the sound of that faint voice.

Arthur was awake again, looking more alert than he had ever before. At the sight of those eyes on him, the Scot smiled. He was so relieved to see the lad conscious again he almost missed the tease in that tone.

"You're still breathin'," was his quick response, spoken in a soft, kind voice that he rarely used, "so I'm still here."

The Englishman rolled his eyes and Alistair was elated to see it. _This_ was the youth he knew and loved and pined for. The boy was no longer just a wounded body in a borrowed bed, he was _Arthur_ again.

"That's awfully sappy of you," Arthur scoffed, more of his personality returning to him with every passing second.

"How're ye feelin'?"

Arthur stared for a moment, and then tried to sit himself upright. He only got as far as pushing himself up on his elbows before he let himself slowly descend back down to a prone position. When he was still once more, he let out a long hiss of pain.

"Everything hurts and it feels like my back is on fire." He furrowed his brows and lifted his arm. Both men watched as he wiggled his fingers and clenched his hand into a fist. Satisfied despite the limited mobility, he brought his hand up to cover his eyes and grimaced.

"Ye bin out fer weeks," the Scot said softly. "Fer a while we worried ye weren't gonna wake up at all."

Arthur laughed, and though the sound was weak and dry Alistair was glad to hear it.

"Can't get rid of me that easily." He pulled his hand down his face and rested it on his stomach. He took some time just to breathe evenly, then let his gaze return to the Scottish lord. They studied one another carefully. "You look absolutely horrid," Arthur's brazen tone only made Alistair chuckle.

"I could say th' same 'bout you, lad."

Arthur scowled.

"I was stabbed. What's your excuse?"

Alistair was happy just being able to speak with the young man like this, so he was not bothered by the blonde's short temper or foul disposition. And given that Alistair could still remember how abrasive he'd been in the time after he'd been wounded in battle, it was easy for him to forgive, too. Arthur had put up with him when he was cranky and irritable through recovery – Alistair was more than happy to attempt the same.

"A fair point," admitted Alistair, never without a relieved smile.

"Speaking of," Arthur shifted, turning on his side to better see the man he spoke to. "Where is the bloody bastard that blindsided me?"

"Dead."

Arthur stared.

"You...?"

"Killed him m'self, aft' learnin' he was one o' the men Laird Duff sent here tae be trained."

"Lord Du-" Arthur's tongue stopped working quite suddenly as the name clicked with a face and an event. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists. "Seriously? He holds _that much_ of a grudge?"

"Ye disobeyed him, assaulted him an' shamed him all in th' same hour, lad."

Arthur bristled.

"Are you _defending _him, Alistair?"

"Nae, not at all, I'd like nothin' more than tae see the man dead."

"I'm surprised he isn't already, knowing your temper."

It was Alistair's turn to laugh dryly.

"Boy, were you an' I not already in the middle of a thorny political mess, he would be."

The prince made a puzzled face as he struggled to remember what sort of 'political mess' was being mentioned. It took him only a minute to work out what he'd forgotten, and ground out a bitter "Fuck politics" after he did.

"Aye," Alistair agreed.

"Is everyone...okay, though? Caitlin and Alfred? Anyone...dead?"

"There are plenty dead, Arthur," Alistair said plainly, "both sides lost people."

"But-"

"Your friends are fine, lad."

Arthur let out a long breath and appeared to take a moment to thank god for the good news. He then read the despondency of Alistair's expression.

"I'm sorry," were the only words he could think to say.

Alistair shrugged somewhat passively, his tone accepting but no less dejected.

"War is a horrid thing."

The attendant had nothing to say in response, so he settled for silence. He rolled onto his back again, though the process was slow and not without pain. Alistair watched as the boy winced and cursed under his breath, and in concern the Scot reached forward and took the blonde's unmoving hand into his own. He stared unflinchingly back at Arthur's curious stare and gave a light squeeze.

"I'll be fine," Arthur promised quietly, and Alistair believed him.

They remained together in that humbled silence for quite some time, and the elder man watched Arthur's thoughtful expression carefully. He watched as realization slowly pulled at his features and he felt his heart sink. Not long after, the Scot felt him try to pull his hand free, but Alistair held tight.

"I can't stay here," Arthur whispered.

Those words were a lance through his chest, but Alistair endured them.

"Ye can," he growled, aware of how dark his tone was sounding but he'd never denied being possessive and bold and was not about to start now. "I'll not let ye leave, Arthur."

"You don't really have a choice anymore, Alistair," Arthur shot back, only to wince as the stress tightened his muscles and brought waves of pain. "I know what I did, and to turn my back on the English now would be a death sentence for us both."

The Scot grit his teeth, casting his gaze aside while he still held firm to the blonde's hand.

"Yer old steward said th' same thing," the lord grumbled.

"Alan? He's okay?"

Alistair felt a twinge of envy at the boy's tone, but he did not dwell on it. He also did not bother to hide his contempt.

"He's alive an' well an' willin' to wait two more weeks for me to make a decision."

"Make a...? What decision?"

"Whether I'm givin' ye back to England or fightin' fer ye."

Arthur frowned and the look was knowing. Alistair could not bring himself to be glad when he felt the boy gently squeeze his hand back.

"I can't stay," he repeated solemnly.

"Donnae say that."

"I'm sorry, truly. I wish...I wish I'd been stronger."

The lord sighed and shook his head.

"Nae, lad, you've been strong enough."

Arthur held his gaze for a few minutes longer before he nodded slowly. In the heavy quiet that settled back over the pair, familiar and solemn, the Brit let out a long breath and relaxed back into the mattress. The grip on his hand gradually weakened and Alistair watched the boy fall into a slumber.

* * *

The lord was motionless for what felt like hours, still holding gingerly onto the warm hand of the sleeping youth. He narrowed his eyes in thought, before clearing his throat and leaning forward in his chair.

The noise cut through the quiet, but Arthur did not react. He slept soundlessly, undisturbed.

"Arthur," he called softly, and the still boy did not stir.

Satisfied, he let out a long sigh.

"I'm sorry."

Those two little words felt so alien on his tongue, but he spoke them boldly nevertheless – unfamiliarity be damned.

"I'm sorry for...for the way I am. I'm sorry to have made ye put up with all that ye did..." he paused, all the while searching for a sign that Arthur had not awoken. "But in the end, I'm glad for it." The boy was still and silent and blissfully unaware of the way the man was breaking down at his side. "I'm glad it was you. I regret nothing that brought you to me. Not even this fruitless war."

The man took a long breath in and realized just how quickly his heart was racing. He couldn't quite explain why it was, either, so he did not try. He continued on regardless, needing to speak the words but wanting them to go unheard.

"I hope ye will come to forgive me."

He stood slowly, still holding gently to the boy's hand. In a careful silence, he leaned over Arthur and kissed him softly, slow and innocent and aching. He pulled away with reluctance and released his hand at last. He stood straight and took a moment to compose himself, rearranging his expression and holding his breath to slow his heart.

He left the boy to rest in peace, his lips set in a grim line as he turned his back.

Had he lingered just a few seconds longer in that same silence, he would've seen the blonde's mask break with the emergence of a small, modest smile.

* * *

Steven was a whittler at heart.

For all his love of horses, there were times where he took a break from caring for the beasts to indulge in his childhood hobby. The act of shaving away at a block of wood to find what hid inside was calming. It helped him to empty his mind and relax, done best to the light of the setting sun.

And given the state of the Arbroath castle, he found himself seeking to empty his mind often.

It was why he sat alone outside the stables on a wooden crate, meticulously carving away at a small chunk of lumber and slowly uncovering the little bird sheltered within. He chewed absently on a strand of wheat, narrowed his eyes to study his carving and blow dust from a crevice.

He saw Alistair before the Scot saw him, and as soon as the Lord stepped out into the courtyard, Steven had a feeling that he was the reason why.

Nevertheless, he was quiet and worked diligently at his craft while the lord looked left, then right, then began to approach the stables. Sure enough, Steven felt those piercing eyes fall upon him, but he did not show any of the unease he felt.

He just kept scraping away at the wood, calm and relaxed.

"Steven,"

The stable boy lifted his head and nodded to his lord. He pretended not to notice how exhausted the man looked.

"M'Laird," he said formally, though he did not rise to greet him.

"I need ye tae do me a favour, lad." The man withdrew a letter from his cloak before Steven could ask. "I need this delivered to the English camp."

The brunet looked from the letter to the lord who held it, slowly accepting it with a raised eyebrow.

"Can I ask what it says?

"No."

Steven grunted and nodded his head in understanding. He stood to pocket the letter, beginning to think of how Ol' Margie wouldn't be happy out and about so late in the evening. A nagging thought made him pause, and he turned at the door to the stables.

"Laird Alistair," he began, and the man looked to him and waited. "About Art..." Steven watched as the red-haired Scot narrowed his eyes. The look was a warning one, but the stable boy was not easily scared and had things he felt needed to be said. "He's a good man, m'laird. With what happened in the attack...I heard that he knew...but he's too transparent t' be a very good traitor."

The younger man watched as the lord's expression changed – the danger faded, but he couldn't quite decide what it was that replaced it.

"I'm sure he had every intention t' tell you about it, and was just waitin' for the right time. So..." he turned his half-finished sculpture over in his hands. "So...when he gets better...don't be too hard on 'im, okay?"

_When. _Not if. _When._

Steven would never be sure, but he thought he saw amusement flicker in his lord's eyes for the briefest of moments. His awkward plea went without getting a proper response.

"Deliver the letter, lad, and return quickly."

Without another word, the man turned. He strode away from the tanned brunet, who stood worriedly in the doorway to the stables, unsure what exactly he'd just witnessed. He banished his concern and tossed the half-finished bird into a pile of hay by the door. He'd return to it later.

At that moment in time, the letter in his pocket seemed alive, and it was accompanied by a strange aura of unease – like a venomous kind of thing one would jump away from, in fear of the damage it would do.

* * *

**I apologize for any heart damage done by the previous cliffhanger. **

**But thank you for all the wonderful reviews! I don't think I responded to any of them. There were a lot and truth be told I've been quite busy. It's part of the reason I'm uploading now instead of after work, as I usually do on Wednesdays - I'll be busy again tonight (but it's still Wednesday and I don't plan on messing up my upload schedule!)**

**I'd like to thank you again for your support. It means the world to me, and honestly every review makes me wish I could do more for you all. Keep them coming, and don't hesitate to share your thoughts, feelings, questions or criticisms, I value them all. You are what has gotten me this far.**

**Thanks so much for reading this far.**

**Until next time**

**Ami.**


	17. Chapter 17

Arthur could only bare to spend another week in that bed.

The doctor confirmed that his body was effectively combating the infection and that it was just a matter of regaining his strength and staying healthy until it was banished completely. The only problem was Alistair.

Though the youth was frequently awake and alert and was back to feeding himself solid foods, the Scot didn't see these as big enough improvements to allow the boy to wander the estate freely. He no longer worried quite as much and no longer spent just about every waking minute at his side, but he still kept a guard posted in front of his door – to raise the alarm if the lad needed assistance or to banish him back to bed if he tried to sneak out of his room.

And given the fact that it took an incredible amount of effort, focus and energy for Arthur to even _get_ to the door to his quarters, it was beyond frustrating to open that door and stare up at the startled face of a large Scot.

"Aam sorry, sairr, but ye hae tae return tae bed now."

Arthur would swear loudly and slam the door, limping back to the mattress to further shout profanities at his ceiling in frustration. He felt caged and restless. Yes, he was not completely better – he knew that. He probably knew that better than anyone.

He couldn't walk without hunching over to dull the pain and every step was miniscule and covered almost no distance. He also had to float from one solid object to the next to rest his weight on. If he did not, the pressure his legs put on his spine would drive a pain so blinding up into his skull that he would collapse.

It had happened only once before, and Alistair had discovered him sobbing quietly on the floor just after lunch. The Scot had scolded him, swore and threatened to beat him if he was ever found that way again, using his anger to hide his worry. It was flattering in some ways that the roguish lord was so concerned, but Arthur wanted to somehow remind him that he was _not_ made of glass and that he should very well be allowed to wander wherever he pleased, especially if he put so much effort into the act of wandering in the first place!

The only thing that kept him from going completely stir crazy was the visitors. The friends he'd grown closest to popped in to chat and keep him company whenever they had the time to spare. But when they were busy, Arthur found himself lonely and bored and wishing he could move again.

Even Alistair's visits were welcome, despite the fact that the prince still harboured a little resentment for how the man was the reason he couldn't go out for a _god damned walk._ The two sat and chatted and Alistair brought him up to speed with the happenings of the day.

He carefully left out talk of the English, but shared the heated negotiations between himself and Lady Ariel on the subject of whether or not they would remain allies. Ariel pointed out that technically, her father's man had launched an attack on an _enemy soldier_. While she insisted she had nothing to do with the act and did not condone any of the events that took place, she also pointed out that severing his military ties with other counties due to an _unwanted_ attack on an _English figurehead_ would draw to him a lot of unpleasant attention.

And Lady Ariel had sworn herself to secrecy about what had gone on that day – at least so long as Forfarshire and Perthshire were still political allies. If Alistair severed the ties, then Ariel would have no choice but to tell the other lords and ladies of Scotland exactly _why_ their alliance had ended.

Thorny political mess indeed, and that was just with another Scottish county. Alistair refused to discuss the situation with the English at all. And when Arthur tried to point out that he now lead the English forces on his lands that Alistair was trying to subtly deal with, the man would growl at him and warn him off the subject.

And then to top it all off - though it embarrassed Arthur to think it - he was feeling very starved for affection. Alistair, for all his visits, kept distant. He never sat too close and kept their conversations very simple. He didn't delve into the emotional grounds they so often warred upon, speaking to Arthur not as a lover, but more as an acquaintance.

It left Arthur wondering just what else he'd done wrong. It also helped to motivate him to disobey, because he was under the firm belief that Alistair shouldn't be allowed to behave so distant and still maintain such a strict handle on his life.

This was why, after his third week bedridden, Arthur began to pay attention to the cycle of guards posted outside his room. Through dedication and careful planning, he learned that there was a changing of the guards at sunset – and before taking up his post, the man who served the night shift in front of his door grabbed supper. It gave him about fifteen minutes of time where his door was unprotected.

A similar exchange happened in the morning, just after sunrise, but Arthur preferred the night – it offered more shadows to hide in.

As the sun began to set, Arthur kicked off his covers. He wished he'd the dexterity and pain tolerance to put on a shirt, so that he wouldn't be wandering around at night in nothing more than trousers, but certain luxuries he had to go without.

He rolled out of bed, trying only once to straighten out completely when he stood, and the resulting stab of pain deterred any further attempts. He crossed the room slowly – mindful to keep his small shuffles as quiet as possible. He leaned against the wall for support as he listened to the guard just outside the door.

Arthur worked himself into the most painless lean he could manage as he waited, glad when he heard the familiar footsteps of an approaching guard.

They spoke to one another not in English, but in Gaelic, so Arthur was left to guess what they were saying. They chatted back and fourth briefly, then their voices faded as they proceeded towards the kitchen together. Arthur turned and pushed open the door slowly, checking down the hall to ensure that no one was watching.

He crept out of his quarters, heading the opposite way he'd heard the soldiers go, hugging the wall and using it to steady his awkward gait.

His greatest fear was running into Alistair, knowing that if he was caught the man would go to greater lengths to be sure he stayed bedridden. He may just be able to talk anyone else into looking the other way. He was sure he could make anyone understand just how suffocating it was to be confined to one small room. He longed for fresh air and a change of scenery, and was sure that those arguably small things would help him to a swifter recovery.

So naturally the place he was most determined to visit was the courtyard, thinking he could sit in the grass and watch the stars for as long as he wished. After that, he could stand to be locked back in his room. He just wanted _one_ break, no matter what Alistair had ordered.

It took a good deal amount of focus and time to get to the servant's wing, quietly listening for any approaching footsteps and knowing he'd be safest from the threat of passing guards there. He was quiet when he opened the door to the mess hall, but that didn't stop a curious voice from cutting through the dim room when he tried to cross it.

"Arthur?" The blonde winced at the sound of his name, and the reflex sent a dull wave of pain up his spine. He hissed a curse under his breath, then turned to where Alfred stood in the doorway to his room. "What're you doing here?

"Just stretching my legs a little, Al," Arthur said, smiling despite the pain.

"But Allie said-"

"Look, Alfred, I know what he said, but I can't bare to be locked up in that stuffy room any longer. You can understand that, yeah?"

The boy took some time to stare before nodding slowly.

"Just go back into your room and pretend you never saw anything, okay?"

Arthur waited patiently as the young lad continued to stare. A sigh of relief escaped him when the boy nodded and smiled, pressing a finger over his lips to indicate his silence.

"Our secret," the child said.

"Our secret," Arthur agreed, glad to watch Alfred retreat back into his room with a scandalous giggle. The Brit crossed the hall as quickly as he could, mindful that the next person to find him may not be so forgiving. He was stopped when that voice cut through the hall again. "Hey, Arthur?"

The Englishman turned slowly. Alfred was standing right behind him, his hand somewhat outstretched as if he was going to prod the blonde. He stopped still when his target turned, and Arthur regarded him with a puzzled look.

"I thought you were going back to bed?"

"I am...I just..."

The boy fidgeted, lacing his fingers together and twiddling his thumbs. His gaze was guilty and distracted and focused on the air somewhere off to his left.

"What is it, Alfred?"

As patient as the Brit was trying to be, there was only so long he could wait. Every moment spent in the estate was a moment where he ran the risk of being discovered. Thankfully, his urging worked for the best.

"Can I hug you?" the boy said plainly, albeit a little shyly. Arthur was confused, but complacent.

"Of course, lad, just be gentle."

Alfred had his arms around the other before Arthur could open his own. The Brit noticed that Al really was trying to be gentle, but his grip was gradually tightening – as if he was afraid Arthur would pull away too soon.

"Is everything alright?" He put a hand down atop the mess of blonde hair, rubbing a thumb against the child's head in a soothing manner.

"I really like you, Arthur," the boy admitted, burying his face in Arthur's stomach. "Please, don't ever leave."

Arthur felt his heart begin to crumble, but he steeled his nerves and gently settled his hands on the boy's shoulders.

"I like you too, Alfred," he said softly, "and I really do like being here."

The prince could say no more – unwilling to make promises to this child that he could not keep. He ruffled the mess of hair affectionately, waiting until Alfred had drawn together enough composure to pull away with a straight face. He looked up to Arthur, his eyes glittering with something the young man could not quite place. It looked as if he wanted to say more, but the boy only smiled somewhat strangely and nodded.

Without another word, he turned and crossed back to his room. He glanced only once more over his shoulder at the confused Arthur, smiling that gap-toothed grin, then shut himself away. Arthur watched him leave, a feeling of guilt welling in his chest.

* * *

It all paid off when he slipped through the door to the outside, and the very first thing he did was breathe deeply. The air was cool and crisp and fresh, and Arthur could have died happy then and there.

However, he had no intention of kicking the bucket just yet, and braced his hand against the wall to walk around the castle and to the back – where there were no doors and plenty of shadows for him to hide in.

It was worth the effort and the ache when Arthur was able to slide down into a sitting position against the building, hidden well from the patrolling guards on the bordering walls in the long shadow of a castle tower. From there he could see the stars above, bright and beautiful, and feel the air on his skin.

He shut his eyes and smiled, ignoring the way the spot on his lower back beside his spine throbbed in protest at all the straining he'd done, because as time passed the pulsing got fainter and fainter until it was only a dull, distant ache.

He also got colder and colder, given that they were approaching winter and he was without a shirt, shoes or a coat. He refused to let that drive him back indoors just yet, because the cold was not so biting that it chased him away and he was so used to overheating under the covers of that stiff bed. He sat still, marvelling at the night sky and watching as his breath faintly fogged out in front of him.

He must have dozed off there, because when he came to attention again he was flooded in moonlight and the stars had shifted. His teeth chattered and his fingers were numb and the first thing he did was wiggle them to regain the feeling.

It was at that time when he heard the sound of ruffled grass that came from steady footsteps. He turned his head to the corner, expecting a guard to poke his head around and scold him for being out. He was entirely unprepared for Alistair to step out from behind the wall and fix him with an unreadable look. His heart seized, but he stared right back with a somewhat goofy smile.

"Hey," he called. He'd gotten what he'd come for, after all.

But Alistair did not curse or shout or threaten him. He sighed, unhooked his cloak from over his shoulders and settled beside Arthur after throwing it over him.

"You'll catch yer death out here, lad," the scold was far gentler than what Arthur was bracing for.

"It'd be worth it. It's better than wasting away in that stuffy old room." To drive his point home, the boy lifted a hand and gesture to the view of the sky. "I _missed_ this."

Alistair only grunted, resting his head back against the stone wall.

"It's not fair of you to keep me locked up in there, you know," Arthur said, "so you can't be cross at me for getting out."

"I know."

Arthur fumbled awkwardly with what to say next. He'd been expecting anger, not this melancholic and docile Scot that sat beside him. Unable to think of anything, the blonde settled for silence and turned his eyes back to the sky. Over time, the awkward atmosphere faded into something relaxed and tranquil as the pair studied the same array of stars.

When the younger man was satisfied with all the moonlight he'd absorbed, he turned his head to smile knowingly at the man at his side.

"Were you worried?" he asked. Alistair shrugged, and Arthur took that as a yes. "I'm sorry," and he honestly was. "I just needed to get out."

Instead of answering, the uncharacteristically quiet Scot rested his hand over Arthur's, never tearing his eyes from the sky. It was the first unabashed display of affection the lord had shown in just under a week. It made Arthur flush with a welcome heat.

The youth then scolded himself for not noticing sooner: Alistair wasn't being so accepting because he wasn't mad – he was distracted. Arthur could tell by the distant look in his eyes that something else was absorbing all of his focus.

"Are you okay?"

But Alistair redirected the question.

"Are you?"

"I'm fine. Better than I've been in a while."

"Good." The man squeezed his hand and stood up, giving the boy's arm a gentle tug. "Let's get ye back inside, then."

Arthur didn't protest and accepted the help he was offered and was pulled slowly to his feet. He steadied himself not against the wall, but against Alistair, who stood still and patient while the Brit shifted the muscles in his back to gauge where it hurt the most.

The Scot watched him grimace for only a few short seconds, before turning and hooking Arthur's arm over his shoulder. He crouched down and spoke firmly.

"Climb on."

"But I couldn't-"

"Arthur."

There was no room for argument in the Scot's tone, so with a resigned sigh the young man did as he was told. Alistair stood, hooking his arms under Arthur's legs while the blonde gripped somewhat hesitantly at his shoulders.

He felt very childish, being carried on the lord's back, and his biggest concern was being spotted like that. Thankfully, most of the estate's inhabitants had found their beds hours ago, and the halls were empty as the Alistair walked them. They had just passed the study when it clicked – Arthur was being taken back to that cursed room.

"Don't-" he said quickly, and the man who carried him gave a pause. "I'm so tired of that place." He bowed his head, hiding his eyes behind Alistair's shoulder. "Don't lock me back in there."

Alistair stood still as he mulled over the Brit's words, and when he'd come to a decision he kept walking. Arthur assumed the worst.

"Please," he begged, "I'm sorry for what I did, really. I'm sorry for sneaking out and I'm sorry for...for making you worry and for getting hurt in the first place." He flinched as the man lightly kicked a door open, but refused to look up. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Alan when I had the chance, it was selfish and wrong and I know that and I'd take it all back if I could."

"Arthur."

The Brit tensed, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't open them until he was slowly deposited on a bed. His eyes were wide when he looked up to the lord, who stood in front of where Arthur sat on the edge of the mattress. It was then that he realized he hadn't been set down on his bed, but Alistair's.

"I forgive ye."

Alistair bent down and kissed the younger man softly, intending to stay chaste until Arthur's hands flew up, gripping the sides of his head. His fingertips pressed into the Scot's skull behind his ears and he pulled him closer, a sort of desperation to his actions that was hard to ignore. His urgency was exciting, but Alistair had more self control than he was credited for. He pulled back just enough to breathe, his words warming the air between them.

"Lad, your wound, we can't-"

"Alistair, shut up." Arthur pulled him close again, nipping at the Scot's lips and shifting his grip to clutch the man's collar. He slowly leaned back, refusing to react to the pain as his muscles shifted and he brought the Scot down with him. Alistair knelt on the mattress, bent over the smaller man and holding himself up stiffly. When they separated for the second time, Alistair's lower lip was bleeding from where Arthur had bit harshly. "Something is wrong," Arthur stated.

The Scot only raised an eyebrow, licking the blood from his lips.

"You've been distant since I woke up in earnest and it's bothering me because I _know_ you're dealing with so much right now but you won't let me help." Arthur paused, startling the Scot when he lifted to swipe away a small smear of blood with his tongue. "I know you won't tell me because you're stubborn and stupid, and that's fine. Just don't pretend you don't need me anymore as a way to cope, because I'm not buying it."

Arthur studied the shock on the man's face. He'd never been so bold before – and certainly not in such a physical manner. He ignored the way his muscles burned in protest when he pushed himself up to take the lord's lips again, tasting blood that wasn't his. When the pain that reverberated along his spine was so severe it began to blind him, he fell back against the mattress with a gasp and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Arthur-" the man sounded pleading, sitting up as the Englishman's face contorted in pain.

"I'm fine," he hissed.

"You're not fine."

"Neither are you. So we're even."

Despite the strong words, Arthur panted from the strain and the ache and his heart raced through it all unhindered. With a strengthened resolve, he pushed his weight up with his right arm and pushed the Scot over with his left. Alistair didn't resist, obviously afraid that if he did he would hurt the youth even more, but he still looked surprised to have ended up beneath the injured Arthur.

The prince was hunched over and his head bowed, straddling the lord and holding himself up with his hands.

"Please," he panted breathlessly, "don't shut me out. Not now, of all times."

Arthur bent down and pressed his forehead to Alistair's left shoulder, his lips over where the man's heart pounded away furiously. There was a silence between them as Arthur struggled to compose himself through the pain and as Alistair watched with a carefully maintained expression.

Slowly, and before breaking the silence, Alistair reached up and wrapped his arms around the youth, pulling him close.

"It's simple, lad: you can't stay here," he whispered into the blonde's wild hair. Arthur clenched his fists beside the lord's head, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets below them. "I'm giving you back to the English."

Arthur felt his entire body tense and he pushed himself away. This time he didn't care about the pain he felt as a result of his motion. He couldn't get angry because he knew it had to happen – he'd submitted himself to this fate weeks ago. To stay would see them both killed. It was heartbreaking, nevertheless, to know he was forcing the man to let him go. He was robbing Alistair of his choice to fight for what he believed – and making him _admit_ to it.

Alistair had made the only decision he could, and had been distancing himself from the Englishman to make their inevitable parting easier. But this sort of thing could not be done painlessly and Arthur did not want to spend his last days with the Scot on the other side of an emotional wall.

Feeling too hollow to cry, Arthur draped himself over the man and kissed him again and again, gradually pressing down against him. There was a heat building up in his stomach that caused an ache great enough to rival the one in his spine. It was both perturbed and soothed by Alistair's hands ghosting along his sides.

It was so unusual for the Scot to be so hesitant and unsure, but for once he understood the man's train of thought. He was scared of hurting him, while Arthur feared the end of them both too much to care about the pain.

He dug his blunt fingernails into Alistair's shoulders and rolled them back over again, his grunt of pain muffled by their clashing tongues. The Scotsman's weight over him was warm and welcome and Arthur was forever trying to pull him closer. He only stopped to trail his hands down and fumble distractedly for the clasp of the man's belt. Alistair grunted into his mouth before he pulled away.

"Arthur, are ye sure you want to do this?"

"Stop- Just...shut up." Arthur was breathless and his throat was sore from holding back tears, though he couldn't say for sure exactly which pain brought them on: the physical one of the pressure against his spine, or the emotional one, for his heart twisted with every reminder that this would all have to end. He arched up to press his face into the Scot's neck. "I don't _want _to, you twit," he muttered into his throat, feeling that steady, unyielding pulse against his lips, "but we need this."

Alistair's expression darkened with a somber understanding. He eased the young man down, pressing him back into the mattress with a hand on his hip. For both their sakes, he tuned out the pained moan because he could hear an undertone of desire there too.

They focused only on each other, ignoring all the pain and postponing the heartbreak. Now was the time for both to endure, refusing to think of this as the last time, and Arthur was once more finding bliss in his ignorance.

* * *

When Arthur woke up the next morning, Alistair was already awake. He could feel the Scot's lips pressing softly into his shoulder blades again and again, delicate and gentle and everything Alistair – and even Arthur – was not.

"_Maidin mhaith, _Alistair," Arthur said quietly, the memory of those words hitting him all at once. He rolled slowly to stare up at the broken smile of the elder man, who could only shake his head and kiss him deeply.

* * *

Arthur was on his feet when the English came for him.

It hurt to stand and every muscle screamed with the effort of maintaining proper posture, but he was a _prince_ and would carry himself as such, especially if he was to convince others that he was able to lead. At the very least, the pain was no longer blinding, and he could manage to walk properly if he set his mind to it – though only for a very short time.

It would be a while before he would be completely without any physical pain, but he'd come a long way since taking a knife to the back.

The envoy that came to retrieve him was small, and Alan Kendricks rode at the head on a dark horse. There were only three or four men accompanying him, though they were all armed to the teeth – all of them accept Alan, who trusted his prince and rode with only a short sword tucked into the sheath on his saddle. The gatekeeper shouted across the grounds that the English were present. As Arthur turned to step out into the courtyard, Alistair caught him by the wrist and pulled him into the shadow of the doorway.

He ignored the youth's yelp of pain and kissed him hard, pressing him firmly back into the door. Arthur silenced his protests and dedicated every bit of his brain to inducting this moment into his memory – the way the man tasted faintly of smoke, the way he smelled of earth and the scratch of the lord's stubble against his jaw.

He was still a little flushed when he stepped out into the daylight, but no one really questioned his distress. He began to approach the gate, stopped when a small body hit him hard in the side from out of nowhere.

Arthur's curse died on his tongue as he recognized the mop of bright blonde hair atop a small head.

Alfred clung tightly to his waist, ignorant to how his embrace was sending pulses of pain over the former attendant's back. The Englishman endured it and returned the hug, sad that he didn't have the strength to lift the boy as he usually did. When the boy looked up to the prince, his eyes were wet with tears.

"Don't go," he pleaded, his voice breaking, "I told you I'd be sad. Please don't go."

Arthur didn't know what to say or how to comfort the crumbling child. His mouth worked soundlessly and he looked back to Alistair, who was doing his best to appear indifferent as he lit his pipe.

He was saved by Caitlin – lovely, saintly Cait – who appeared at his side to separate him from the now bawling boy. She whispered hushed words to the child, wiping the tears delicately from his face with the pads of her thumbs. The child whined something unintelligible, but Cait seemed to understand. She drew the boy into a hug, showering him with kisses until he was quiet again.

Arthur could only stand and watch, aware that Alan's envoy still waited by the gates.

But they could wait just a little longer.

Swallowing his pain, the prince got down on one knee. He tapped the boy on the shoulder and opened his arms when he turned, caught in another crushing hug in the seconds following.

"Hey now," Arthur soothed, stroking the boy's back, "remember what we talked about."

The boy pulled away, looking confused.

"Someone's gotta stay behind and make sure nothing goes wrong here."

The big blue eyes welled up again and he began to cry fresh tears.

"B-but-"

Arthur shushed him, giving him a final hug before awkwardly pushing himself to his feet. Alfred seemed to register the blonde's struggles, offering himself as support while the prince rose again. He was reluctant to leave the Englishman, but stepped away.

Caitlin stood in his place, smiling warmly despite a familiar glaze over her eyes.

She didn't have any words and instead stepped forward. She pulled him gently into a hug, one he returned fondly.

"Be safe, Arthur," she whispered, pulling away to peck him on the cheek. He could only nod, his throat too tight to produce a proper goodbye. He blinked away tears and advanced. Steven was leading a familiar painted horse over from the stables and passed the reigns to Arthur.

"For you, mate," he said stiffly. The pair had said their goodbyes already – the prince had taken his time to frequent anyone he could to exchange some final words – so Arthur knew not to make the exchange any more emotional.

"Figured it was poetic," said Alistair from behind him, and Arthur turned. The man nodded at the patchy beast, "same horse ye rode in on."

The prince studied the animal, then laughed – though the sound was somewhat bitter.

"I seem to recall I didn't so much 'ride' it as I was 'transported' on it."

"Details, lad."

Alistair accompanied the prince as he crossed the remainder of the courtyard. Alan was trying to steady his impatient horse when they approached.

"Sire," he nodded to Arthur, then his bright eyes flicked to the Scot, "Lord Alistair."

"Laird," Arthur corrected softly, and Alistair grinned. Arthur turned to face the man for a final goodbye.

The red-haired lord studied the shorter blonde for quite some time, trying to draw up the right words to say, aware that the pair was being watched carefully by the Welshman on horseback. It was Arthur who thought of something first, smiling up to the man and reciting a familiar line that meant so much more to the two of them than it would anyone else.

"I don't hate you."

Alistair chuckled and reached forward. He almost looked as if he were going cup the youth's face, only to correct himself and ruffle the blonde's hair instead. There was a pause, then the Scot stepped forward. Arthur went red, but the man only brought his head down to mutter something something to the prince, and the Brit felt the weight of something fall into his pocket

Alistair straightened out, nodded, then backed away slowly. He went to stand with Cait, who'd lifted little Alfred and settled his weight on her hip. Arthur swallowed a hiss of pain as he mounted his horse, giving the Arbroath estate one final glance before flicking the reigns and guiding the horse through the gates.

* * *

The little envoy paused only to collect the rest of their soldiers from the camp, and while men ran about packing supplies, Arthur slumped forward on his horse.

"Sire, we can supply you with a carriage if you need to rest."

Alan was there at his side, his antsy beast stomping the dirt. Arthur shook his head and straightened out as the soldiers cried to one another, ensuring everything was accounted for.

"It's fine, Alan. Leading by example and all that."

The brunet gave his old friend a smile, but it was subdued and brief and there was something else flashing in the young man's eyes. With a grunt of acceptance, he trotted off on his horse and shouted at the men to be swift.

At least these people didn't sound like they were snarling all the time.

_Optimism._

Arthur laughed at the thought until his throat became tight and his eyes stung.

* * *

"M'lord, if I may..."

Alan was there again, riding near the front of the troupe with the renewed English Prince, who was careful to sit straight and strong at all the times he knew he was being watched, but Alan still saw the pain that crossed his friend's face – physical and otherwise.

Arthur turned tired eyes to the Welshman, his smile patient and kind.

"Of course, Alan. What's on your mind?"

The brunet wrung the leather of his reigns in his hand.

"I was thinking about this war and how...well, it can't go on forever," he said, watching for any small change in the blonde's face. "Perhaps in the future, it may not be too difficult for you to visit again."

Prince Kirkland felt hope flicker briefly in his chest, but he did not belong there anymore.

"That is kind of you to suggest, Alan," the youth said. His smile was forced and he knew Alan could tell. "But you were right, English royalty has no place there."

Those words would've broken his heart, were it not already in pieces.

"But sir-"

"There is no point in placing hope in something that simply cannot be," he stated firmly, keeping his eyes ahead of them as he allowed the smile to die from his face. He kicked his horse a little faster and left Alan behind, who had withdrawn with the feeling that the prince wasn't really speaking to him anymore.

Arthur pushed ahead, aware that his mask was cracking and wanting the English at his back when it did. He barely felt the pain along his spine anymore, too preoccupied with the Scot's final words and trying desperately to snuff the hope they had brought with them. Clenched in his hand behind the reigns of his horse was a familiar wooden pipe, still warm from its last use.

"_I'll be comin' tae get this, lad. This isnae the end. Count on it."_

* * *

**Yup.**

**Can't decide if the next upload will be tomorrow or Wednesday. Help me?**

**Thanks again so much for your reviews. I know we wouldn't be here without them. I owe all this to all of you.**

**Looking forward to hearing from you, and thanks for reading this far.**

**Until next time**

**Ami.**


	18. Epilogue

There was blood everywhere; his hands and arms were coated, sticky and slick and stained. He felt sick, but did his best not to focus on that. He focused instead on the end goal – the result, the relief, the destination.

This life had left him behind anyways, was it truly so bad for him to do the same?

* * *

Arthur was an irritated whirlwind of motion as stormed through the doors. Alan was there in a heartbeat, struggling to catch the crumpled-up letter that was thrown at him.

"Sire, is everything alright?"

"No."

The young man threw himself onto one of the benches in the lounge, rolling quickly and pressing his palms into his eyes. Alan stood by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot, kneading the paper in his hands.

"Will he not hear you?"

"He won't even give me a bloody _audience_ with him," Arthur snarled. "Me! His fucking _son!_"

"To be fair, he is a very busy man." A pause, and then the Welshman spoke in a quieter voice, "also mind your tongue, m'lord."

That last remark was ignored.

* * *

The alarm bells that woke the county of Yorkshire the morning after the 23rd of April were accompanied with panic. The news spread like a wildfire, twisted and exaggerated as it was passed from mouth to mouth.

Some said it was suicide – that the boy had always been a fragile one, that he would never be able to carry the weight of a true royal. Even though his time away had strengthened him and given him the obvious qualities of a leader, he did not stand with his father on matters that he should. Perhaps the frustration of working against his family had finally broken him?

Others said that it was a kidnapping. They theorized that in a few days' time, His Majesty would be informed that his second born was in the custody of the Scottish, or another kingdom who was at odds with their own. Blood did not always mean death, after all.

But there were those who disagreed with both and claimed it was a murder. The trail of blood lead to no body, they said. Why would a suicidal walk himself away from his death bed and leave no note? There were also whispers that one of the young prince's attendants had seen a man dump a large sack into the River Hull. Even though the river had been scoured in hopes of finding answers, nothing was found. The body must have been lost to sea – or at least that was what they said to ease the sting of their failures. There were whispers that the Disinherited had finally grown tired of the young prince's vocal lack of support for their cause and had taken it upon themselves to silence him.

But no matter what had happened or who had done it, Prince Arthur was gone, and he was not coming back.

* * *

"It's complete rubbish. If he's got time enough to find a suitor for my fickle sister than he's got time enough for an audience with me. He just doesn't want to _hear_ what I have to say."

"It's not like he hasn't already, though," Alan was hopelessly fighting a losing battle, and Arthur blew out his lips at this, pushing the fringe of his hair back with a hand.

"Oh sure, he's _heard,_ but obviously he's yet to actually _listen._"

"You've been saying the same thing for years, master Arthur. Maybe your father won't ever be ready to have that kind of talk with you."

"Bloody shame, that," he grumbled, itching absently at the top of his skull and scowling at the ceiling. Alan smoothed out the paper in his hands and read the letter for himself. He had to admit, for a letter from a man to his son, it was awfully formal and distant. If he didn't already know, he would've assumed this was from a total stranger.

With habitual neatness, the brunet folded the page into fourths and placed it on the short table in the middle of the room. He moved to go stand by the door, but a scoff from the miserable blonde stopped him.

"Oh please, Alan, that last thing I want right now is formality. Sit your arse down."

* * *

The funeral was somber and grand and befitting of a prince. There was no corpse to show, but they buried an ornate casket with the rest of the family nevertheless. The entirety of the royal family was present, sharing fond words and stories and dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs.

But the death of nobles and royals were so common in times of war and struggle, even the one of a prince would soon be forgotten.

* * *

"Is it even worth it anymore?" Arthur asked, careful to keep his tone level. "I mean, it's been almost twenty one years since the beginning of this stupid war and we _still_ can't look to the north without reaching for our blades." He furrowed his brow and laughed. The sound was harsh and dry and made Alan jump. "I was a year old when this war started. Look where I am now, and nothing about our relationship with Scotland had changed."

"There have been small milestones," Alan put in hopefully, and the young man only scoffed.

"Not enough to mean anything in the long run."

Arthur sighed again, stretching his arms above his head until his back cracked, then rested his hands over his stomach.

"But really, is it even worth it?" he repeated, quieter. He rolled on his side and looked up at Alan, who sat in the chair nearby. Alan felt guilt well in his chest at that heartbroken expression. "It's been five years, Alan." He lowered his eyes to the floor and seemed to deflate, crestfallen. "And not even a single letter."

Alan shifted uncomfortably, reminded again of exactly what he'd taken his lord away from.

He spent years rebuilding a trust with the young prince and rekindling their friendship. Arthur had caved on the eve of his twentieth, telling his attendant everything in an emotional confession brought on by french wine. While Alan always had a feeling that he had been close with the lord he'd served in his time as an attendant, he had never quite guessed the feelings ran as deep as they did.

"Well, the kingdoms are at war," he said helpfully, "and it can't be easy for a Scottish lord to get a letter to an English prince."

But Arthur didn't want to hear excuses.

"_Five years,_ Alan," he repeated.

Alan couldn't meet that stare any longer, and he fixed his gaze instead on an oil lamp nearby.

"One would think I would've moved on by now," Arthur hissed, bitterly, "god knows Father would probably listen to me a little more willingly if I did as he asked and took a bloody bride."

He was quiet for a while, and only when Arthur looked back to the young man did he speak again.

"What am I waiting for, Alan?"

The attendant had no answer, so he shrugged and stared instead at his knees.

* * *

Alan fell into his chair with a great sigh, rubbing at his temples as his muscles relaxed, but his brain did not unwind with them. He found his eyes gravitating to the desk he sat behind until a feeling of all-consuming guilt drove him to open one of his desk drawers.

There were stacks upon stacks of letters, all unopened and bound into piles with twine.

For five years he'd been intercepting the messages.

At first he'd done it to protect Arthur. Though he did not know the details at the time, he knew that thoughts of Arbroath made the prince miserable. Why was the lord sending a former _servant_ letters at all? He didn't feel proper to read them, so he simply stockpiled them in his drawer - including the many Arthur passed along to him to send. For a long time, he justified his deeds by telling himself that he was helping the prince get over his attachment, that he was making the process of moving on easier to deal with.

It had eventually become habit, and then as the letters began to add up, Alan was not sure how to come clean gracefully.

So he never did.

He really wasn't sure what motivated him to open the last letter, but now knowing what had happened between the prince and lord, the words meant so much more.

_ I made you a promise,_ it had said, then four little letters that made Alan's blood run cold. _Soon._

* * *

Alan was one of the last people to leave the gathering. He stood over his friend and master's grave, feeling oddly as empty as the casket buried beneath him. The sun was high above his head and beating down on him, trying furiously to be warm and pleasant though the star's efforts were undercut by a chilly, damp spring breeze and the occasional gray cloud.

He was alone for a long time, standing above that plot without words to say. They all felt wrong, spoken here and now and to a pile of dirt on the ground. He should have said them all sooner, in happier times. More importantly, he should have said all the right things when they would have meant the most.

He spent so long disapproving and trying to protect a friend who needed no protection. He had made it quite clear that he could handle himself. The only reason he never had as a child was because he was never given the chance to show he could.

And Alan, as ignorant and presumptuous as anyone in the prince's early life had ever been, had been no different. Now he knew better, and just as he'd said before the worst pain of his life, Arthur had been given the chance to grow up a little.

And grow he had.

He'd left them all behind for something better, with a wisdom and acceptance that should have belonged to someone three times his age.

* * *

The meeting was meant to be discreet. It was planned on a very early Monday morning on a street that was sparsely populated on even the busiest of days.

Alan stood against a building wall, his old green cloak pulled up to hide his face. He had a dagger hidden in his belt, but assured himself it was only for self defence. They didn't have the best track record when it came to confrontations, after all.

He was alone in that alleyway for a long time, and part of him hoped that he was being stood up. His plan was foolish and reckless anyways, and there was no way he could ever easily-

"I donnae remember sendin' an invitation tae ye, boy."

That voice was dark and dangerous and made the attendant jump away from the shadows that had spoken it. When his initial shock was past him, he began to wonder what had tipped the man off that Alan was not Arthur.

"I came anyways," he said, lowering his hood and dipping his head out of habit. It was an act of respect meant to be shown to those who ranked higher than he, and even if he was Scottish, Alistair was still a lord.

The man melted out of the shadows like he'd been a part of them all long. He wisely had abandoned his blue-and-green cloak for something a little more covert.

"Where is he?" Alistair asked, pulling his hood down to reveal that wild red hair and more importantly – the threat in his eyes.

Alan backed away, more cautious than afraid.

"Sleeping, I would imagine," he watched the lord for any sudden movements, hand on his dagger under his cloak. His heart began to race in anticipation. He would somehow have to explain himself before the man could kill him. "He doesn't know you're here."

"An' how is it tha' _you_ do?"

The Welshman paused, unable to rid himself of the feeling that Alistair was only humouring him – that he already knew what crimes the attendant had committed.

"I intercepted the letter."

"As ye have all the rest, aye?"

Ah, so he did know.

"Yes." There was no point in lying here. He still clutched tightly to his dagger, tensing at even the slightest of movements. By the smirk on the Scot's lips, he knew full well how weary he made the younger man.

"And yet, ye have th' balls tae meet me here," the man purred, but there was no mistaking the menace in his tone, "brave o' ye, lad."

Alan swallowed and cut right to the point.

"Arthur is miserable here," he said, backing up as the Scot advanced. He kept talking, knowing his words would save him from whatever wrath the man had planned. "His father won't listen to his requests to diplomatically end the war, and it's a battle he's been fighting with His Majesty since the moment he returned to England."

The Welshman stopped when his back hit a wall.

"I stopped your letters at first because I thought it would help him move on, but he's unhappy. He has been for years. He's bound to a duty he's come to hate and His Majesty won't grant him authority because of his political views."

"I didnae come here to talk politics with ye, _Kendricks._"

"Nor did I. I'm only giving you an explanation."

This made the Scot pause.

"Oh?"

"I have a proposition for you."

* * *

Arthur's twenty second birthday was admittedly lacklustre. He was thrown a party, of course, and there was a feast and dancing and general merriment, but the prince couldn't help but to compare it to the party he'd had as a youth with a litter of servants in a dimly lit mess hall.

Here he was expected to dance stiffly, perfectly in time to the beat of an elegant tune. He was passed lady after lady to swing around the ballroom in hopes that they might work their way into his good favours and make a husband out of a prince. But Arthur was uninterested in the painted faces and the tight, elaborate dresses that only seemed cumbersome.

All these women were putting up a front for him, and because it was his birthday he didn't feel inclined to play along.

Which is why, after the last of his guests had seen themselves out, Arthur asked to just be left alone. When his servants seemed unsure at the request, he changed his tone and made it an order.

He was not to be disturbed, no matter what.

* * *

_Maybe_, Alan thought, _had I done something differently..._

The 'What if's' were unavoidable, and the Welshman thought he was the one plagued with far too many. What if they had stayed hidden in the woods, all those years ago? What if they had stayed with the driver of the carriage – hopped up onto the horses and ditched the coach? What if he'd found the boy sooner – if he'd thought to look deeper into Scottish territory?

What if his wound had killed him, and he had never found the boy at all?

How would things have changed? Would they truly be better? Would they be any worse?

And Alan was left staring down into an empty grave with no answers to give.

* * *

It was dark when Arthur pushed his way into his room, already beginning to undo the buttons of his gold-trimmed tunic. He walked forward into his quarters, frowning at the grand bed as he began to toe off his boots.

He stopped dead when he felt a chill crawl up his spine, accompanied with the feeling that someone was watching him. Arthur heard a shuffle from behind him and the click of the door being shut. He wasted no time in diving for the sword leaning against his wardrobe and unsheathing it. He spun on his heel and pointed the blade at the intruder.

"Sharp as ever, lad."

The familiarity of that voice hit Arthur with all the force of a charging horse. He felt all the air in his lungs leave him as he studied the face of the man in the dark. His blade clattered to the floor and everything was still.

At least until Alistair went to speak and the prince cut him off with a furious punch.

Alistair laughed as he stumbled back, managing to retain his balance and keep himself from falling into the door. He was prepared when the younger man flew at him again, catching his fist and stepping behind him. He pushed Arthur forward into the wall, wrenching his arm behind his back and pushing up, stopping only when he heard the young prince hiss with pain.

"Your right hook has gotten rusty," he observed with a smile, leaning forward to press his weight into the Brit.

"_Fuck you," _he hissed.

"Not quite," teased Alistair, "but I'm glad tae hear your tongue hasnae dulled."

The Scot swore suddenly when the young man drove his heel back into his captor's shin, and he responded by pushing up on the prince's arm until he cried out.

"Who the _hell_ do you think you are, showing up _here?!_" Arthur began to struggle, enduring the pain in his shoulder until he was afraid it would pop out of its socket. "It's been _years_, you _stupid Scot."_

Alistair said nothing, watching through hooded eyes as the boy began to twist again. This time, more out of curiosity for what the lad would do, the Scot let him go. Arthur whirled, swiping his foot along the ground and knocking the lord's feet out from underneath him. Alistair swore loudly, unable to react quickly enough to stop the Brit from pouncing on him. He was still when he felt the cold steel of a dagger against his throat – withdrawn from the prince's boot.

* * *

The estate the prince used to live in was bought out by an Irishman, who also purchased all those who worked within it. It took time to adjust to the presence of a new master in the manor, but as the months passed and the memory of the former lord of the estate trickled away, life resumed as it once had.

The Irish lord was kind, patient and fair. He believed that hard work built good character and lead by example. He was out in the smouldering heat with his servants when they worked outdoors, and was sure they had a warm shelter to return to when they toiled in the cold. He was loved by many, and widely respected.

Even Alan found himself taking a liking to the modest lord. It also helped that in the first few weeks of the man's presence in the estate, he'd taken the time to get to know the head of staff. He had been sympathetic of the way the Welshman would seem distant and withdrawn at times, and had once managed to draw out the confession that the young brunet thought often on his former friend and prince.

The Irishman, in turn, would talk now and again of his brother and dear niece – his only family left in the world – lost to the hills of Scotland years ago, and insist that he knew what the lad was going through.

* * *

Arthur was perched above the Scot, a sharp dagger pressing lightly into an unprotected neck. The prince fought to catch his breath and Alistair watched; the younger man looked like he was on the verge of tears, but he appeared no less livid despite it.

"I wrote to ye, lad," Alistair said calmly, not without a sly smile. "Jus' as I know ye wrote to me."

The man seized the prince's shock and quickly snatched a pale wrist. He pulled the dagger away from his throat and threw his weight up. Arthur was bucked off, but given no time to collect himself before the other man rolled on top of him, pinning his wrists to the floor beside his head.

"This brings back memories," he said scandalously, eyes on the prone form beneath him – relishing the way the blonde still blushed red and panted so marvellously. He compressed the bones of the prince's wrist until he released the dagger, then Alistair laced their fingers together and squeezed tightly. He wasn't gentle in the least, and still kept him pinned to rug.

"What do you mean you wrote to me? I have _never_ seen a letter from you. I was beginning to worry maybe you'd become illiterate," the jab was accompanied with a nasty scowl, but Alistair did not care.

"Ye can thank your good attendant fer that," Alistair hummed, all too pleased with how this was all playing out. Arthur paled.

"Alan?"

"Aye, bin collectin' our messages fer years."

The prince narrowed his eyes and tried to shoot up, but Alistair leaned down and pressed their chests together, keeping him caged with very little room to squirm.

"I'll kill him," the blonde hissed, ignoring the way the Scot only chuckled at the threat.

"Again, not quite."

Arthur raised a thick eyebrow. He knew the Scot was being intentionally vague, just to frustrate him. It was working.

"Why do you think it's okay for you to act this way?" Arthur scolded, twisting his body in a futile attempt to escape. The Scotsman tightened his grip on the younger man's hands until the pain stopped him from moving. "It's been so long, and I could very well be betrothed by now."

"But you're not, are ye? Been quite turned off by the thought of weddin' anyone but me, aye?" Arthur went bright red and renewed his struggling, working through the pain in his knuckles and fingers. "We've been o'er this, Arthur. Of all th' people I know or have known or will come to meet, there is only you."

These words, sincere and quiet, stopped him again. He stared up at the red-haired lord, puzzled, not quite sure how he felt.

"I never said the same applied for me," he pointed out, but they both knew that this was irrelevant.

"True enough, but you 'n I both know that ye belong only to me. I willnae allow time tae change that."

Arthur narrowed his eyes and frowned.

"I am not a thing to be owned, Alistair."

"I know that, Arthur, but you are mine nevertheless."

In accompaniment with these words and probably to prove a point, Alistair kissed the prince. At first, Arthur pursed his lips and remained still, stubbornly resisting until the Scot bit quite harshly at his lower lip. A cry escaped him, and he was tempted to bite the tongue that delved inside his mouth until he tasted smoke.

That familiar taste was what ended his struggling. All the memories and the feelings and the heartache came rushing back. He narrowed his eyes to banish the tears and kissed the lord back fervently. His heart began to race and he wanted to reach up – to pull the man closer and keep him where he couldn't slip away again, but Alistair was holding firmly to his hands and keeping his arms down. He loved and hated how he felt dizzy and lightheaded from lack of oxygen, and when Alistair slowly withdrew, he had to struggle to focus on the man's face.

"Told ye," the Scot purred, and Arthur scoffed, but the noise caught in his throat and it ended up sounding more like a breathless choke.

"You're abhorrent."

"That's a new one," Alistair was unaffected as ever by the blonde's insults as he leaned back, slowly pulling his hands away. Arthur was caught between punching the man again or pulling him back down.

Only somewhat bitter for his decision, he settled on the latter, flying up to snatch the collar of the man's shirt and sitting up to meet him half way, seeking the familiar taste of smoke and Alistair, unabashed if only because it had been so long.

He was practically hanging off the man's shoulders before he was pressed back into the floor and ravaged appropriately for his encouragement. He wrapped his legs around the Scot, and Alistair answered with salacious gropes at his thighs and rear.

Arthur didn't _care_ that they were still on the floor. He didn't care how improper the entire situation was. He didn't care how he was answering every lascivious grab and kiss with ones of his own and that his family would pale to see the raunchy display – even were it not with another man. At that moment he was too wrapped up in how much he missed this feeling.

It was an uneasy churning in his stomach, but he felt like he was flying.

It was an aching heart, but his chest felt warm and the tingles were indescribable.

It was a crippling need that he dreaded he'd never be rid of, but the relief that buzzed in the back of his brain with every touch made it worth it.

It was Alistair and Arthur and the lord was right – they were helplessly addicted.

He surprised them both when an instinctive growl rumbled in the back of his throat, caused by the lord pulling away and pressing a firm hand down on the middle of his heaving chest. He scowled up at the Scotsman, still holding fistfuls of the man's shirt and tugging impatiently.

"Wha' happened tae 'I never said the same applied for me'?"

"Don't you start," Arthur hissed, trying to lift off the floor. Alistair kept him pinned, ignoring his strangled grunts and embarrassed whines.

"Happy birthday, by the way. I brought ye a bit o' a gift – other than me, o'course."

Arthur stilled and frowned, refusing to react to the self-confident remark. He furrowed his brows and stared up, expectant. He was not quite sure what sort of gift he wanted from this man – just what sort of gift he thought would make this all better.

Alistair's smile was slow and wicked as he picked up Arthur's dagger from the floor.

"I'm gonna give ye the ultimate way out, lad. I'm gonna kill ye."

* * *

There came a day many weeks after the passing of Arthur Kirkland that Alan was called for much earlier than usual.

This was because a messenger had been by, carrying but one letter, addressed not to the lord as such messages usually were, but to an Alan Kendricks.

"This is for you" Lord Donovan passed him the envelope, an eyebrow raised curiously. He watched as the young man opened it carefully, relieved when Alan's face lit up as he read the words on the page. The Welshman covered his mouth to hide his smile, though he needn't have bothered – the Irishman smiled just the same, glad the news seemed good. "Who is it from?"

"It's from my brother," Alan said, reading the short letter a second time.

"You never told me you had a brother, lad."

Alan grunted and turned the letter over in his hands. He would apologize later to himself for lying to his employer. For the time being, he let his eyes return to the neatly written words on the parchment and he read it once more with a feeling of warmth.

_Alan,_

_We made it._

_I must keep this brief. I just wanted to make sure you knew that everything is alright. I hope your life was not too unsettled. At least now you won't have to worry about me anymore._

_Optimism, Alan!_

_I owe you more than I could ever repay, brother. I will keep your memory with me always. Thank you for everything you have done._

_Sincerely,_

_A. K._

_P.S._

_He apologizes for stabbing you._

Alan chuckled to himself, folding the letter into neat fourths and slipping it into his pocket.

"So it is good news?" Lord Donovan asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes."

Then lord's face brightened with a warm smile. There was a twinkle in his deep green eyes and his laugh was uplifting. The sound had a pleasant tune to it, and after giving it thought, Alan could almost call it melodious.

"Then I'm glad for it."

* * *

_The Good Lord knows not to meddle in the lives and the loves of his people. He cares not who you love, but how you come to love them. He judges only what you endure to keep them with you, or how much you regret when you finally let them go._

_END._

* * *

**Thank you.**

**Thank you all for your continued support, for your favourites and follows andreviews alike. Thank you for giving me the confidence and encouragement needed to see this all the way through eighteen chapters. I am so grateful to all of you, and I cannot stress enough that without you, I would have abandoned this weeks ago. Thanks to those of you who have been with me faithfully since day one, to those of you who have joined us along the way and to those of you who I am going to hear from in the future.**

**And thank you, reader, for seeing this all the way through to the end!**

**You'll see more from me, I promise. I know I have little oneshots in my mind for this AU, as well as completely new ideas. I'm far from done.**

**So again, don't hesitate to review - let me know what you thought or how you felt. Send me a PM if you'd like, for I am a very talkative person and I love to chat. I really do love hearing from all of you, and I'm glad to have attracted the attention of such a marvellous group of people.**

**Once more: Thank you - we made it!**

**Until next time,**

**Ami.**


End file.
